


Sea Change

by sunsetmog



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-25
Updated: 2010-01-25
Packaged: 2017-10-06 16:41:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 53,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunsetmog/pseuds/sunsetmog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After getting his heart broken, Spencer tries to start a new life without the band.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sea Change

**Author's Note:**

> With many thanks to the people who've read this through for me: to emilyray, for doing a wonderful, lightning-fast beta; to miznarrator, for advice and support right from the outset; and to wordsalone for ensuring that it all looked American. Still, any errors and accidental British-isms are entirely down to me.
> 
> I have talked about this fic to more people than I can count (sorry, people /o\\) and I'm really grateful to everyone who has listened and cheerleaded as necessary. Special thanks should go to disarm-d for helping me figure out a big part of the storyline when I was completely blocked, and to harriet-vane and ashlein for all of their advice and support.
> 
> This has a happy ending, I swear.
> 
> Originally posted here: [[one](http://sunsetmog-fics.livejournal.com/37197.html#cutid1)] [[two](http://sunsetmog-fics.livejournal.com/37046.html#cutid1)] [[three](http://sunsetmog-fics.livejournal.com/36671.html#cutid1)] [[four](http://sunsetmog-fics.livejournal.com/36603.html#cutid1)] [[five](http://sunsetmog-fics.livejournal.com/36099.html#cutid1)] [[six](http://sunsetmog-fics.livejournal.com/35979.html#cutid1)]

Spencer has spent six months working in an office in Seattle.

It's not perfect, not by a long shot, but it means he can be anonymous and he can get paid for it, and at the end of the day he can go home to his apartment and watch TV and pet the cat. It works.

They call him James and they pay him more than they should for the job that he does. He mainly does data entry (he's almost twenty. He hasn't been to college. His GPA wasn't amazing. He finished his high school career off by correspondence and he's got a gap in his resume he chooses not to enlighten his bosses about, other than to say he was 'traveling'. He doesn't say where, or when, or how. He doesn't mention the van or the shows or the album that he dropped. He just shrugs his shoulders and tries to maintain eye contact and look like he's the kind of guy the company wants to employ).

He has a desk up front, just by the reception area. It's a sparse cubicle a long way away from the printer, with just enough space for his in-trays and his monitor and a pencil holder full of half chewed pens and old pencils. The company isn't exactly free with their stationery and Donna, his line manager, insists that he's got enough pens as it is without giving him access to the supply closet.

Spencer tries not to think about who sat here before him, who chewed on the end of his pen before he did.

\--

He lives in a nondescript apartment, in a nondescript apartment block with two other people. They advertised on Craigslist and Spencer - who was desperate - turned up and paid the security deposit without really paying attention to the apartment.

It's turned out okay. They have a cat, whom Spencer kind of loves. She technically belongs to his roommate, although Jodie's never exactly complained about Spencer virtually adopting her. Spencer's the one who empties Missy's litter tray, who picks up cat food from the store when they're running low, the one who checks that her bowl is full in the morning before he leaves for work. He's sort of taken with her, and he knows that when he leaves this apartment, it'll be Missy he'll miss the most.

Missy curls her way under Spencer's elbow and mews against his chest and it's the closest Spencer's come to physical affection in a long time, so he scratches under her chin and down her back so she'll curl closer.

When she's not there, Spencer misses her warmth.

\--

His room isn't very big, but then he's left a lot of his belongings behind. He doesn't have a radio anymore, just his laptop and his old iPod. He keeps his iPod in a drawer, along with the few CDs he brought with him. He hasn't opened the drawer in a while.

The first time Jodie sees his room with all his stuff in it, she says "I guess you're not that into music, then."

Spencer just shrugs and tries not to think of the pulse of the bass drum underpinning his heart beat, the way his footsteps beat out a rhythm against the sidewalk every day. The way he can't help but hear it, day after day, no matter how much he tries to block it out.

He still has more shoes than he knows what to do with, so he's fumbled together a shoe rack from Ikea and put it under his window. A lot of his clothes - the show clothes, the ones they used to wear to parties, to practice sessions, to sound checks, the ones they did their interviews in - those he's left in Vegas, in suitcases and boxes he hasn't even unpacked.

He's even got a few books, stacked up in a well thumbed pile on his shelves – he'd accidentally brought one with him that belongs to Ryan and has his name scrawled across the inside cover, alongside the date.

Spencer doesn't open that one. He keeps meaning to get rid of it.

\--

He fills his days entering data into a spreadsheet in the corner of an office filled with people who haven't heard of Panic! at the Disco, who don't know that they're working with someone who used to be greeted on stage with screams. They all seem like good people, Spencer can't fault them for that, but he doesn't really have anything in common with any of them.

Sometimes, when he's feeling especially starved for human contact, he ends up in the coffee lounge listening to Donna and Alison talking about what they've read in the newspaper. He finds himself slipping into an alternate universe where he pretends to think the same way they do, where he nods at things he doesn't even vaguely agree with, where he hums along with them just because they're talking to him and he likes the way their voices sound alongside his.

\--

Spencer likes Seattle. He likes the weather and he likes the chill and he likes the coffee. He likes it better than he ever liked Las Vegas.

He spends his weekends going grocery shopping and doing laundry and watching DVDs. He sometimes goes out and gets coffee, sitting in the corner and reading National Geographic or struggling his way through a book he's picked up from the library. It's not that Spencer has trouble reading, it's just that he's a bit slow (he's getting faster, slowly, with practice) and it isn't like he's ever really taken the time to read before. He's steering clear of all the books that Ryan used to read - _Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas_ or _Catcher in the Rye_ or _On the Road_ or anything by Chuck Palahniuk. Instead, he picks books off the library shelves pretty much at random.

He's read _Wuthering Heights_ (that took him ages, and he can't get his head around the idea of living somewhere so isolated in the middle of winter) and he's read _The Princess Diaries_ (because he'd just wanted something easy, and he'd caught the movie one Sunday afternoon when he was still sprawled in his pajamas on the couch, and his roommate Jodie had the TV remote) and now he's reading _War and Peace_, precisely because Ryan never had the concentration to dissect a book that long and Brendon never picked up a book if he could help it. Brent didn't read either, unless computer games magazines counted.

Spencer needs things in his life that aren't anything to do with the way things were.

\--

Jodie's nice enough. She works at The Gap and tells Spencer really seriously that they're an ethical company now, so she can sleep easy in her bed at night. She grew up in Seattle and her family is large and well-meaning; she's always got some sort of barbecue or birthday or anniversary party to go to on the weekends. She's terrible at cooking and frequently leaves their kitchen looking like a tornado's run through it, and she's always in the bathroom when Spencer wants to take a shower.

She doesn't mind Missy sleeping in Spencer's room, though, and she's sweet and pretty quiet for a roommate (Spencer sometimes lets himself think of tour buses and hotels and living alongside _other_ people, and he tells himself that quiet is _good_).

Their other roommate is a guy named Michael (Spencer sometimes thinks of another _Mikey_, and a teenaged crush, and he can't help but feel an ache for the life he once had, for the life he might have had) but this guy is Michael, never Mikey, never Mike.

Spencer hasn't made a mistake yet.

Jodie and Michael call him James, like his co-workers do at the office, although they sometimes see mail arrive for him addressed to Spencer. "It's a family name," Spencer says, with a shrug. "James is really my middle name." It's not a lie, but it's hardly the truth either. They seem happy with it though, just like they do at the office. It's just easier this way.

\--

Spencer's cellphone has barely any contacts stored in it. He has his sisters' numbers and he has his mom and dad and he has his grandma and that's about it. His old phone is somewhere in a dumpster outside the airport in Las Vegas and Spencer sort of hopes that some homeless guy picked it out and ended up getting woken up in the middle of the night by all the voicemails Spencer refused to listen to.

The only person he talks to a lot is his mom, and he's never told her exactly what happened between him and his band. He doesn't really know why he hasn't, but he knows she's drawn her own conclusions and from what she's said, he's pretty sure she's not far wrong.

Still, he's never told her, or his dad. They both know that he doesn't want to see – or talk to - any of his old bandmates again, and so far his parents have respected that. They've kept his new cellphone number to themselves and haven't given out his email address. He hasn't checked his old email account since- well. Since. The only people who send him emails now are his cellphone provider and Amazon, personally recommending him DVDs and books.

Sometimes his mom tells him that Ryan's called, asking after him. Asking for Spencer's number. She never gives it to him, but she always calls Spencer afterwards to tell him that Ryan's been in touch. Spencer thinks that it probably should have stopped hurting so much by now, but it hasn't.

He tries not to think about his old band, about Ryan and Brendon (_Brendon_) and Brent or even Jon. He doesn't think about Pete – although he's more difficult to ignore, now that Pete's started dating Ashlee Simpson and the magazines are full of them both – and he doesn't think about any of the other bands they toured with or hung out with offstage. It's hard, sometimes, when he's in the breakroom eating a cheese sandwich or drinking a cup of coffee and he flicks over the page and Pete's there, at a ball game or whatever. He tends to carry battered old copies of National Geographic around with him now, because then at least he can be sure he's never going to turn the page and be confronted by someone he used to know.

Sometimes Spencer's heart sort of aches, but really, things are okay. They are.

\--

Spencer's been thinking about applying to college. That's probably what he would have done if Panic! had never been signed, and somewhere inside he thinks he's trying to pretend the last couple of years never happened. The thought of college is kind of scary, though; if he can help it, he doesn't ever want to be recognized again. College is going to be full of college-aged kids doing college-type stuff and he's sure that some of them are going to be listening to music and will have been a year ago, when he was still on stage and it was still _his_ band and not just _theirs_.

He knows that he hasn't exactly made a lifetime commitment in making the jump from being a drummer in a band to being a data inputter, but he still feels restless. He sends off for a couple of college guides and thinks about how the royalties from the album might help with his tuition.

It's just an idea though, and secretly he thinks it might be too soon for him to be joining the real world again. He likes hiding, he likes it when people don't know who he is. He likes how people don't _expect_ anything from him here.

\--

Spencer doesn't look the same as he did back then, back when he was still the drummer in his band. The make-up's gone, for a start. If he's honest, he always kind of liked the make-up; he liked their style and he liked their image. Underneath, though, it was all Ryan, and without him around anymore, Spencer doesn't even own an eyeliner pencil.

His hair is longer too – not like it was when they were first starting out and he didn't know how to use a flat iron, but different. Older. He's been thinking about growing a beard for a while now too, but he chickens out every time it gets past the stubble phase.

The important thing to Spencer is that the Spencer Smith he used to be, the one with the eyeliner and the skinny jeans and the short spiky hair, _that_ Spencer Smith is a long, long way away from the James Smith with long hair and the beginnings of a beard who works in an office. That's what's important, Spencer thinks.

\--

It's another month before Donna corners him in the office and says that there's an opening in the department upstairs for an administrator. It's more clerical than his current job, with less data inputting. Donna smiles at him and says that he's a hard worker (he's not, he thinks, he's just good at looking busy) and that she'd be pleased to help him on his way to a better job. "Who knows what could be around the corner, James?"

Spencer thinks _god, no,_ but she's always been nothing but nice to him, so he tries to smile and say thank you.

He interviews for the position and eyes them when they question the gap in his resume between his early exit from high school and the start of his current job. "Traveling", he says, and he stares at them until they look away.

\--

He starts his new job on a Thursday, of all days, bringing with him a shoebox of stationery and notebooks from his old desk. He'd only just gotten new stationery, and he was damned if he was going to leave his pens for someone else to chew on. He's kind of gotten possessive about what's _his_, lately.

The first thing he notices about his new office is that the average age of his co-workers is a lot younger than he's been used to. He's gotten used to conversations about kids and childcare and birthday parties and the perils of having teenagers. His new co-workers are more likely to be talking about parties and music and going out at the weekend, and Spencer thinks, _crap_. There's even a stereo in the coffee lounge and a couple of CDs scattered around with people's names carefully stuck on with the label maker. He really should have checked this out more carefully before he agreed to go for this job. It's too late now.

His new line manager is Tim, and Tim takes him around the office once he's gotten his desk sorted, and introduces him to everybody. Spencer has to stop himself saying _Spencer_ when they hold out their hands from him to shake.

\--

Spencer tries to keep himself to himself.

He's growing his beard, more out of fear of recognition rather than anything else. He's worried that someone will see his social security number on a payroll form, or that his paycheck will have his full name on it and someone will recognize him. He's been on the wrong side of music journalists before, and come to think of it, he probably still _is_ on the wrong side of most of the music journalists who would know who he is. He's got no desire for someone to find out who he is – _was_ \- and for them to tell someone else and for the news to break about where he is and what he's doing.

Spencer's under no illusions about how unimportant he is in the grand scheme of things; he knows it's hardly important that someone who used to be a drummer in a band that still happens to be doing well, is now working in an office, but it's his privacy and his life, and worst of all, it's his old band who'll know. It'll be important to _them_, and Spencer thinks that them knowing where he is and what he's doing will be a lot worse than some sort of low-key VH1 Behind the Music-type article on page 56 of some bad music magazine.

\--

Spencer calls his mom and tells her about his new job.

She wants him to do better for himself, to go to college or do something that he's at least interested in, but at least she seems to listen when Spencer tells her that he's okay and that he's happy doing what he's doing. She saw him after he'd left the band, after all. She was the one who picked him up from the airport after he'd dumped his cellphone in the trash. She knows what he'd looked like back then, and what his head was like. Spencer knows that while she's unhappy that he's alone and working some dead-end job in a city where he hardly knows anyone, at least she seems to believe he's someway to sorting himself out.

"Ryan came by," she tells him, after he's talked about his new cubicle and his proximity to the coffee machine.

"Oh yeah?" Spencer says. He taps out a rhythm on the table, and blinks.

"Yes," she goes on, "he was asking after you. Asking where you were living and why you wouldn't let him explain." His mom doesn't sound accusatory. She never does. She never asks him to explain to _her_, either. She's too good to him.

"Mom-" Spencer says, tiredly.

"He misses you, Spencer."

"I don't miss him."

His mom sighs, and starts to tell him about Jackie's science project and Crystal's English paper and his dad's gardening project. The normality is kind of nice, and Spencer definitely doesn't think about how it's never Brendon who tries to find him.

\--

Working in the new office turns out to be a lot easier than he'd initially thought. They're more lenient about what time he starts and finishes work, so he tends to come in a bit later and have a coffee in the Starbucks across the street first. He reads his book (he's still reading _War and Peace_, although it's really fucking long and some of the bits where Tolstoy goes on and on about the nature of war make him think back to Ryan boring him stupid, year after year, and he skips those bits and goes on to the more interesting parts with Prince Andrew) and he has coffee or sometimes he just sits in the window and just watches the world go by for a while before he goes into the office.

The coffee machine is near to his desk, which helps. There's a microwave, too, but no one will take responsibility for cleaning it. Spencer doesn't live like that anymore, so he just brings sandwiches from home instead. Spencer's lived in vans and on buses, he knows how dirty these things can get.

So. Spencer's okay. He's okay, and it doesn't matter that he's lonely and the only company he has is in his head. He prefers it this way. He prefers the peace and the quiet and the fact there's no one stabbing him in the back and twisting the knife.

\--

Some of his co-workers go out for drinks and fried chicken after they finish work on Fridays. Spencer tends to shake his head when they invite him, and pretend that he has other plans (he's been so elusive that there's a sort-of office joke about his secret alter-ego that parties the weekend away) but really, he goes home and he makes food and he watches DVDs and maybe he watches some porn on the internet and goes to sleep. It's not the most exciting existence in the world but it's _his_ and for the first time in a long time, he's starting to feel like he's in control.

He finally says yes to Friday night drinks a couple of months after he starts in his new job. Tina, who sits a couple of cubicles away, and Hanim, who sits a few desks behind him, both ask him when he's in the breakroom having lunch. They're kind of bugging him and Spencer isn't exactly renowned for his sociability, but he finally just gives in and says, "Yeah, whatever, okay. I'll rearrange my plans."

Spencer thinks that maybe they didn't expect him to say yes, but they're smiling at him, so he thinks that it might all be okay.

\--

Spencer's kind of nervous about going out. It's been a long time since he's had to be sociable, a long time since he's been drinking with other people and had to be careful about what he might say. He's also still only twenty, and the barstaff aren't going to be too impressed by the fact he used to be in a band who got invited to some pretty cool parties at some pretty cool venues.

He doesn't even know where his fake ID is - mostly because he hasn't needed it since he was sneaking into shows with Ryan and that was a long time ago. A lifetime ago.

It's okay, actually. The beard makes him look older and because he's with a group of people the doormen recognize, he gets in no problem. They order baskets of fries and buckets of chicken wings and take a long table over at the side of the bar by the pool table.

It's the smell that catches at him; suddenly he's straight back in a bar with Brendon and Ryan and Brent and they're laughing and drinking even though Ryan's looking pretty miserable about it, and Brendon's being Brendon and Brent seems more relaxed and Ryan's stiff but he's unwinding slowly, and then it's late and everyone wants to talk to them and-

"James." Tina's offering him a beer. He reaches for it gladly, swigging it back and the taste burns against the back of his throat. It's been almost a year since he's been in a bar, even though it hasn't been that long since he's had a drink, and it's the _smell_ that's affecting him most.

He's a little nervous - he's concerned that his mouth might run away with him if he has too much to drink, and the foundations of this safe little existence he's created for himself are kind of locked in him maintaining the same level of secrecy about his past that he has done so far, so he's careful about how much he drinks. He sits at the end of the table, closest to the wall, and he talks to Hanim, who he's never really spoken to outside of the office, and he talks to Lucy, with whom his conversations have tended to be nothing more than exchanging nods over the coffee machine. She seems nice; she asks him what he's reading and he pulls out a very battered copy of _War and Peace_ from his backpack. She seems interested, which is good, but they're only part way through the conversation when Spencer realizes he misses his friends so much his chest hurts.

He covers it up with a cough, because it isn't Brendon and Ryan and Jon or even Brent that he misses, it _isn't_. It's not even the friendship that they had together that he misses, because as it turned out that wasn't real friendship. Not like he'd thought it was, anyway.

"Are you alright?" Lucy asks, and Spencer nods and turns away and fakes another cough.

"Sorry," he says, and he wipes his mouth. "Something went down the wrong way."

He thinks about going home early, about just picking up his jacket and going home to where he can put on his pajama pants and start watching _The West Wing_. He's always had a crush on Rob Lowe and he's moving slowly through his back catalogue, ignoring the off-period where time (and Hollywood) forgot about him.

He doesn't, though. Instead, he asks Lucy what she's reading, and Hanim talks about some book he's just finished about secrets in Renaissance art (Spencer remembers Ryan's long-winded rant about _The Da Vinci Code_ and winces, involuntarily). The evening passes and by the time he leaves it's half past nine and he's actually kind of had fun. It's a nice feeling.

When Spencer gets back to his apartment, he watches porn on his laptop and the boys in it don't remind him of anyone he's ever met. He folds his laundry and takes a sleeping pill and climbs into bed to wait for it to work. When he finally falls asleep, it's with his face pressed up against the spine of _War and Peace_, his fingers marking his page.

\--

The Friday nights out are a standing date for his co-workers. Spencer doesn't always go along, because he can't let himself fall into routines that involve relying on other people. He makes excuses, blaming his busy life outside of work, but he always sort of enjoys himself when he does go. They don't always go to the same bar, but he still talks mainly to Lucy and Hanim. They talk about the books they're reading or what they've been watching on TV. Spencer watches a lot of TV now.

He's heavier than he was, eating more and exercising less and he's filled out. His upper body isn't as muscular and he's lost the definition that came with playing the drums for a living. He remembers people talking about his hips back when the first articles started to come out about them, when they were still young enough and naive enough to trawl the internet looking for mentions of themselves. He doesn't google himself now and he thinks that he probably won't, ever again.

He blames Lucy for persuading him to come out this particular Friday.

He isn't really in the mood; he's tired and even though it's taken him months, he's finally nearing the end of _War and Peace_. He only has about twenty pages left and he's been considering staying up late to finish it. He's also concerned that his Friday evenings are becoming routine; he can't let that happen. Routines involving other people just end up with him having to trust them.

Some days Spencer thinks he'll never trust anyone ever again.

He doesn't recognize the bar when they end up outside it - it's downtown, further away from their office building than they usually go. It looks like a dive.

"What's so special about here?" he asks Hanim as they go down the steps, past the doorman. It won't be that long before Spencer can wave his driver's license in their faces, but as it is, he keeps his head down and hopes for the best.

"Don't know," Hanim says, with a shrug, holding the door open for him. "Tina picked it. Something to do with a band."

Spencer freezes. Everyone has their trigger and Spencer's is music, which is both suffocating and desperate and makes him feel cold inside.

"Hey, Tina," he asks, as they push their way through the crowd to get to the bar. "What's so special about here?" His skin is prickling and he's not looking around him. He focuses on Tina. There are _kids_ in the bar, music kids, scene kids. Kids dressed like they're going to a show. Kids who might – at one point – have known who he was. Who might own a copy of his album. He's tempted to just turn right on round and go home, but he can't cause a scene. He just can't.

"Some band my boyfriend has tickets for are playing down the street," Tina explains, raising her voice to be heard over the noise She shrugs. "I think they're called The Cab? I don't know. My boyfriend knows a guy who gets him tickets for free. Figured it would be easier if we were somewhere close."

"Right," Spencer hasn't heard of The Cab, but that's not enough to put his mind at ease. He hasn't picked up a music paper or listened to the radio in about a year. "Who are they? What's their album like?"

Tina shrugs, and stares pointedly at a girl with pink streaks in her hair who is leaning against the bar trying to chat to the bartender. The girl rolls her eyes and pushes into the buzzing crowd of people. "I don't think they're famous," Tina tells him in a bored voice, taking the girl's space at the bar. "I don't even think they've got an _album_." She shrugs, raising her voice over the noise of the bar. "My boyfriend says they've only just been signed, but he says they're supposed to be pretty good. Apparently there's a _buzz_ about them, or something." She rolls her eyes.

Spencer hums. There was a buzz about him once. Back in the day.

"Aaron might have spare tickets," Tina tells him, trying to catch the attention of the guy behind the bar. "You want one? You could have mine, but Aaron's seriously hot. Worth seeing some crappy band for, anyway."

Spencer shakes his head, too violently. "No," he says sharply, and Tina looks startled. "No," he says again, taking a deep breath. "But thanks. I'm just not a fan of bands."

"O-kay," Tina says, and Spencer can see the way she's storing up that information to tell her boyfriend later, this funny story about the odd guy at work. His fists clench by his sides.

They end up pushing through the crowds to get a table in back. There are a lot of kids around, and the more Spencer sees of them, the more sure he is that they're the kind of kid who might - at one point or other in their lives - have owned their album and maybe recognized Spencer as the drummer. He keeps his head down and answers in monosyllables when people talk to him. He's pretty fucking sure everyone thinks he's a freak.

Tina's boyfriend shows up with the tickets, enough for four of them to go down and see the band play. Tina persuades Tim and Debbie to go with her and Aaron, and they head off in a loud, vocal group. Spencer keeps thinking _I should just go home_, but there's something so addictive about being here, about being in a bar with people who are going to a show later on. Spencer can almost taste the atmosphere in the air. He can't go home, can't leave, can't do anything but sit there and try not to fall apart with sheer unadulterated want.

"You okay?" Lucy asks.

Spencer nods, _yeah, yeah_.

He isn't. He remembers the hum of the venue, the way his muscles would tense and how he'd have to bounce on the balls of his feet to loosen up before they'd go out on stage. He remembers Brent locking himself in the bathroom - every time, without fail, groaning. He remembers Ryan, staring in the mirror. Staring and staring like his reflection would change if only he looked long enough and hard enough. He remembers Jon, later, leaning against the wall, fingers tapping a rhythm against the brickwork. He remembers Brendon's ridiculous vocal exercises and the way he'd go stupidly, uncommonly still before they got the knock on the door.

He doesn't think those memories will ever stop hurting.

Spencer ends up staying in the bar far later than he usually does. He's in kind of a weird mood, lost back in the memories of his old life. He's not really paying attention to anything that anyone says to him, and he keeps having to say _sorry_ or _what was that?_ because he's just not listening. The others more or less stop including him after a while, and that's fine too. Sometimes Spencer just needs to bury himself in memories of what used to be, and at least if he's here, staring into space, he's not at home by himself throwing up into the trash can after drinking more than he should.

He's still in the bar after the show finishes and Tina and the others come back, warm and pink cheeked and loud.

"Didn't think you'd still be here," Tina says, because Spencer doesn't ever stay out late. She elbows her way down onto the bench and eyes the bar in annoyance. There's beginning to be a line as the kids file in from the show.

Spencer shrugs uncomfortably. "Figured it was time for a change," he says, and he thinks back to those times he'd stayed up until the sun rose. The time he'd fallen asleep with his cheek pressed up against Brendon's thigh, Brendon's fingers in his hair.

"Guess who we saw?" Tina says, after sending her boyfriend to the bar with her drinks order.

"I dunno," Hanim says. "Donna from downstairs. Rocking out in a halter neck and a miniskirt." Donna weighs close to three hundred pounds.

Lucy wrinkles her nose, punching Hanim in the arm. "Way to ruin my night with an image, dumbass."

Spencer stills. "Who?" he says, sharply.

"Only that guy who's dating _Ashlee Simpson_," Tina tells him, excitedly. "Pete Somebody, I think. The guy with the eyeliner. We've just seen him coming down the street, he might be coming in here. Aaron says the band are on his label, or whatever. They were okay, by the way. A bit loud. I don't know, but Pete's completely gorgeous. If I wasn't with Aaron I'd totally-"

Spencer's hands start to shake and he can't hear over the rushing in his ears; before he knows what he's doing he's knocked his beer bottle off the table and onto the floor. He thinks the beer will probably stain his suede shoes.

"James?" Hanim's touching him on the shoulder. Spencer wonders if it's the first time he's said his name.

"It's okay," Spencer tells him, rubbing at his thighs and looking around the bar, trying to see if he knows anyone, if anyone recognizes him. He needs to get out of here. "It's okay. I've got to go."

"James?" Lucy's looking concerned.

Spencer's stumbling into the table. People's drinks are spilling with the impact. "I've got to go-"

"Your backpack," Hanim says, as Lucy says "Your _coat_."

Spencer doesn't care. He needs to get out of here, he needs to go home and crawl into bed and hug Missy. He needs to be out of here right _now_. He makes a grab for his things.

Except he's stumbling out from behind the table and suddenly Pete is in the middle of the bar, surrounded by people, and Pete's staring right at him.

Spencer can't breathe. He just stares, stares and stares and he can hear Tina and Lucy and Hanim, all whispering excitedly and watching. He can't make out the words over the noise of the bar.

Pete pushes past his friends and his hangers-on and his fans. Spencer's worried that people might start to recognize him; he tries to listen out for the sound of his name. He can't swallow.

Then Pete's stood in front of him, hands on his hips. "Give me one reason, give me _one_ good reason why I shouldn't punch you in the fucking face-"

"Pete," Spencer says, weakly. "Pete, please." People are looking over. He hates people looking at him, can't bear their eyes on him. This isn't who he is anymore.

"James?" Lucy's standing up, one hand on his shoulder.

"James?" Pete's staring at him. "Fucking _James_?"

"Pete-" It's the only thing he can think of to say. Pete's part of his history. He's part of a life Spencer doesn't live anymore and a life he doesn't want to think about.

His hands clench into fists. He doesn't have to deal with this crap, he wants to go home. Pete's nothing to do with him anymore, he doesn't have to bend to Pete's whims. He shakes his head and mutters, "Fuck this shit."

He shakes off Lucy's hand and tries to push past Pete, but Pete's always been stronger than he looks. "Seriously, Spencer, this is where you've been hiding?"

"Fuck off, Pete." Spencer's trying to push past him, loosen the grip Pete's got on his arm.

"Spencer, fuck, have you _any_ idea how worried they've been about you?" Pete shakes his head. "I could punch you through the fucking window for disappearing like this."

He can hear the others behind him, a soft wave of sound he can't process. He doesn't know and he doesn't care if Pete knows exactly why he left, why he got on a plane and said _fuck this shit_ and never went back. He doesn't care because Pete's not a part of his life anymore. Panic! isn't a part of his life anymore.

"Get your hands off me," Spencer says, fiercely, and maybe there's something about the way he's changed shape, grown up, left the kid in the skinny jeans behind, because Pete _does_. Spencer shakes his head. "Stay the fuck away from me," he says, and he's not joking.

He pushes past Pete and he pushes past everyone else in the bar and he pushes past the doormen and up the steps onto the street. He doesn't stop until he gets home, until he gets through his apartment door and into his bedroom and onto his bed, Missy rubbing her head against his palm. He can't breathe.

\--

Spencer doesn't sleep that night. He tries; he puts on his pajamas and makes himself a drink and turns the light off. He spoils Missy by letting her curl up on his pillow even though he doesn't normally like sleeping with her by his nose. He ends up watching some DVD, some movie he can't remember the title of, and the end credits roll and he doesn't remember much of the plot either.

His hands are still shaking as the sun comes up and he ends up giving in, taking a sleeping pill as his clock ticks past his weekday alarm. He falls into an uneasy sleep as he hears Jodie get up and into the shower.

He wakes up at two in the afternoon, groggy and uneasy. There's a thump in his chest that's everything to do with his carefully engineered security falling down around him. He checks his phone - there are messages from Hanim, Lucy and his mom. His mom's called seven times. He deletes them all without listening to them.

He calls his mom. "Hey," he says, softly, rubbing his eyes.

She lets out a long sigh of relief. "I've been so worried," she tells him. "Your friends have been keeping me awake all night."

"They're not my friends," Spencer says, tiredly. He's said it before on a multitude of occasions but he still thinks that his mom doesn't listen, however much she tries. He doesn't have any friends.

"Spencer-"

"They're _not_," Spencer says, again.

"They've been calling all night," his Mom says, and she sounds _tired_. "What happened, sweetheart?"

Spencer shrugs, and rubs tiredly at his face. His brain still feels fogged from the sleeping pill. "I met Pete in a bar," he says, and he feels a wave of fear when he thinks about his carefully built walls falling down.

"Oh, Spencer." His mom's quiet.

"Yeah."

"Ryan's been calling. And Pete called. And-"

"Yeah?"

"And Brendon, Spencer. Brendon called."

Spencer oh-so slowly sits back down on the bed. "Yeah," he says, again. "I've got to go, Mom."

"Spencer-"

"I'll talk to you later." he hangs up, dazed. Brendon. Fucking _Brendon_. His limbs feel sluggish and it takes him far too long to send a text message to his mom, saying he's switching his phone off while he naps and not to worry. He turns off his phone – the plainest and cheapest he could find - and lies back on the bed, throwing his arm across his face. Missy - annoyed at being disturbed - jumps off the bed and pads out of the bedroom. Spencer sighs, and tries not to think.

\--

He doesn't sleep. He sort of thinks that he might never be able to turn his brain off again. Everything he's tried to leave behind is suddenly real, no longer just the faded memories of some kid in a band but utterly fucking _real_ again. Suddenly it's like it was all yesterday, instead of a year ago. Pete can go screw himself for turning up like this, messing with Spencer's head and his carefully engineered life.

Jodie knocks on his door just after six in the evening. They don't often come into each other's rooms; they're all relatively independent and they only occasionally cross paths in the living room or when they're preparing food at the same time in the kitchen. Spencer sometimes thinks of the way the band all used to live on top of each other, the way they used to bang elbows and reach over one another and watch TV and shout over each other to make themselves heard. He remembers the noise and the confusion and the total lack of privacy and peace. He doesn't miss that.

"Hey," she says, quietly, and Spencer tries not to tell her to get the hell out of his space. "There are some messages on the phone for you, but I think they might be someone messing around-"

"Oh?" Spencer says, and he thinks that his hands are shaking already.

"Yeah." She wrinkles her nose. "They're from someone pretending to be Pete Wentz."

Spencer sort of wants to scream into his pillow. He would do, if Jodie wasn't standing over him. Jodie wouldn't even know who Pete Wentz was if she wasn't an Ashlee Simpson fan; Spencer had seen her CD lying by the stereo in the living room. "What did they say?" Spencer asks, after a moment, and he's fucking angry at Pete invading his personal space like this. Why can't any of them respect his right to be left alone?

"They're weird." Jodie shrugs. "You might want to listen to them. And James-"

Spencer looks up.

"-if that's one of your friends screwing around, would you ask them not to do it again? It's weird. I didn't like it."

"Yeah," Spencer nods, pressing his palms into the comforter. "Sorry."

"That's okay." Jodie cocks her head to one side. "I've never liked prank calls. Reminds me of high school."

"Sure. Sorry."

\--

He listens to the messages while sitting on the arm of the couch.

Pete says, "This is a message for uh, James, it's Pete Wentz. Can you call me back on-" Spencer doesn't write down the number. He deletes the message.

Pete says, "James, _James_. Spencer. Look, seriously. You've been driving them insane. They're driving me crazy. Crazier, even. At least give them a chance to explain. We need to talk-" Spencer presses delete.

Pete says, "They're sorry, Spence. Let them say that at least-" Spencer hangs up.

"Everything okay?" Jodie asks, on her way to the kitchen.

"Yeah," Spencer says. "Sorry."

He spends the rest of the afternoon holed up in his room watching _The West Wing_ on DVD. Missy's forgiven him, and he has the door shut to his bedroom, just him and Missy curled up on the bed.

If he's watching TV then he doesn't have to think about Pete or Ryan or Brent or Jon or Haley or Brendon.

He keeps his phone under his pillow even though it's switched off. He takes another sleeping pill at just after nine and falls asleep lying diagonally across the bed with Missy curled up in the small of his back.

\--

He wakes up heavy-limbed and exhausted, fighting through drowsy semi-consciousness just to open his eyes. He does all the things he normally does on a Sunday; he stands by the coffee machine in the kitchen and watches as the coffee drips through the filter. He puts laundry on and has a shower, rubbing at his eyes in a vague attempt to wake himself up. He goes to the grocery store and picks up a bag of oranges and ingredients for tacos and the new National Geographic. He goes home and puts his groceries away and then wanders back out to Starbucks, sitting in the back corner with his new magazine and a large coffee. He has his phone with him and he finally switches it on after he's finished his coffee. There are new messages from Hanim, from Lucy. He doesn't read them before pressing delete. There are a couple from his mom - _call me, am worried. Mom x_ \- and a missed call from a number he doesn't recognize.

He calls his mom on the way back to his apartment.

"They've been calling me, honey," his mom says, "I think maybe they're worried about you."

"They don't get the right to be worried about me," Spencer says sharply. "Not anymore."

"Spencer, they're your friends."

Spencer sighs. "Were, Mom. They _were_ my friends. Not anymore."

"It sounds to me like they want to be friends again, Spencer. Maybe you want to listen to what they've got to say? It doesn't sound like they're going to be giving up anytime soon."

Spencer swallows hard, a flash of a memory of the four of them, back in the day. The memory's sweet, and warm, and it burns. "I don't want to be friends with them, Mom. I _can't_." His voice is tight.

"I saw Brent's mom at the grocery store," she tells him, sighing.

"Yeah?"

"Yes. She asked after you. Brent's doing okay, she said. He's at college-"

"-I really don't want to know," Spencer interrupts her. He doesn't. He doesn't want to know what's happening with the people he used to be friends with, regardless of whether they're still in the band or not. He doesn't want to know, he doesn't want to think about it, he doesn't want anything. He just wants to go back to his job, to being _James_, to being anonymous and to being free of everything else.

"Okay." His mom's quiet. "How are you?" she asks, finally.

"Yeah," he says. "I'm okay."

"Sleeping okay?" She went with him to get his prescription filled for the sleeping tablets after that first, terrible week after he'd quit the band and the phone had just kept on ringing. She knows he's still taking them. She probably doesn't know how much he's come to rely on them.

"Getting there," he says, rubbing his eyes. He's outside his apartment block, and it's starting to rain. He says goodbye and promises he'll call her later.

\--

Upstairs, sitting on the floor outside his door, is Pete.

"How did you find out where I live?" Spencer asks, stupidly.

Pete shrugs, clambering to his feet. "Money," he says, with half a smile. "Gets you whatever you need."

It doesn't, Spencer thinks, but then he and Pete have always been different.

"You going to invite me in or what?"

Spencer thinks about _or what_, but knowing Pete he'll just stay there all night, or until Spencer gives in. Pete's done that kind of thing before. "Okay," he says. "But you go when I say so."

Pete looks at him for a long moment. "Right," he says, and Spencer doesn't know whether that's a yes or a no, but it's _something_, and Spencer will take what he can right now.

\--

Michael's in the kitchen, getting a pizza out of the oven. Michael's a nice enough guy. He's busy a lot of the time, out with his friends. He goes to a lot of classical concerts and has friends he plays Scrabble with. Spencer's played with him occasionally, but Michael's got the vocabulary of a king so Spencer always ends up getting his ass kicked. He also, wonderfully, has absolutely no idea who on earth Pete is.

"You found him then?" Michael says to Pete, nodding at Spencer. Pete must have knocked at the door and then just hung around when Spencer wasn't in. "I'm Michael," Michael says, by way of an introduction, wiping his hands on his jeans and holding one out to Pete.

Pete shakes it, says, "Pete," and Michael nods.

Spencer gets a glass of water - he doesn't offer Pete one - and takes him through to his room, where his roommates wouldn't be able to overhear them.

"So," Pete says, eyeing up Spencer's room.

"So," Spencer says. The room is tidy, relatively sparse. Not many pictures. There's a pile of mismatched shoes by the shoe rack under the window; it turns out that a single shoe rack isn't enough. Spencer is trying to build up a list of things to get from Ikea next time he goes; he thinks maybe he'll check out Craigslist first, see if he can't save himself a few dollars. He hasn't got the same earning potential he once had.

"Long time no see," Pete says.

"Yeah," Spencer says. Sometimes it doesn't seem like a long time ago, those few weeks where everything took a turn for the worse and Spencer's life ended up upside down and in pieces.

"You're calling yourself James." It isn't a question.

Spencer nods.

"And you work in an office," Pete goes on.

Spencer barks a laugh. "Money doesn't exactly grow on trees," he tells Pete.

Pete nods, slowly, and sits down on the bed. "Spencer," he says, and for a moment he looks seriously fucking tired.

Spencer leans back against the wall.

"I talked to them, Spencer, Jesus. Christ, if they'd done to me what they did to you I would have hated them too."

Spencer swallows, hard.

"I don't think they meant to hurt you," Pete goes on. "They feel really bad about it all."

That means absolutely _nothing_. Breaking Spencer's heart and twisting the knife at the same time still hurts as much whether they meant it or not. "Fuck that shit," Spencer manages, his voice tight. He doesn't like to think back. He's better off now. "I'm _happy_," he tells Pete. He knows he sounds nothing like it.

"Spencer," Pete says, again.

Spencer closes his eyes, because it doesn't matter, it really doesn't. It's just his _name_, just a word. "Pete, what are you even doing here?"

"They fucked up. Brendon and Ryan - they fucked up. Brent too. Haley-"

"I don't care," Spencer tells him. "I don't care."

Missy comes in, pushing her way into the room. She's on her way over to investigate Pete but Spencer needs her. He scoops her up, holding her tight against his chest. She's not happy about it, mewing grumpily and scratching at his neck.

"Haley and I were over," Spencer says, and maybe he's holding on to Missy too tightly, he doesn't really know. She's still in his arms though, which is a reassurance. "Haley can fuck whoever she wants. Haley-" he stumbles over the words, names he hasn't even let himself think, let alone say out loud for a very long time. "They're welcome to each other," he says, finally. "Neither of them were _officially_ in a relationship, they were both free to do whatever they wanted. They weren't doing anything wrong." He can't help but imagine how they looked together when they were naked and on the bed, Haley's legs around his waist. The _sounds_.

"Spencer," Pete says, helplessly. "Spence-"

Spencer shakes his head. "Stop calling me that," he says, sharply. "That's not who I am anymore."

"Spencer-"

"Fucking shut up, Pete." His voice is maybe too high, too sharp. Too venomous.

"Fuck," Pete says, a moment later, his voice soft. "They really did a number on you, didn't they?"

"No," Spencer says, his fists clenched. He sort of wants to cry. "It's fine. I'm fine. They can fuck whoever they want as much as they like, I don't care. They can keep whatever secrets they want, I don't care. They're all free agents."

"Spencer-"

"You can go now," Spencer says, his voice tight. "Go away, and tell them to leave me the fuck alone. I don't want to hear explanations, I don't want to hear apologies, they were totally within their rights to fuck whoever the hell they wanted to, keep whatever secrets they wanted to. I just don't want anything to do with any of them. Do you get that?"

Pete sighs, long and tired. When he stands up, he looks worn out. "You should give them a chance to apologize," he says, after a moment. "Maybe you need that as much as they do."

"Would you?" Spencer's hands shake. Missy shivered, but stays still, her nose cold against his neck. "Let them apologize?"

Pete doesn't smile. "No," he says, "but then I'm a fuck-up."

Spencer nods. "Yeah," he says. "Me too."

\--

Going into work the following day isn't easy. Spencer's used to his routine, he's used to Starbucks, he's used to his coffee and he's even used to _War and Peace_. He's used to that empty feeling in his chest, the one that feels like loneliness, the one he tries not to acknowledge. He's not so used to fear.

It's as bad as he thought it was going to be. Tina corners him as soon as he gets out of the elevator, saying _you know Pete Wentz_ and _can you introduce me?_ Spencer sort of thinks its good that she's so self-involved, because she's clearly not particularly interested in how it is that Pete knows him. Spencer's kind of used to that, or he _was_, and it's enough to make him shake his head and remember that it wasn't all good, back then.

He says, "I don't know him any more," and that's enough of a statement to give him a moment to get past her and back to his desk.

The whole office seems to know that he knows Pete, because Tina's the sort of person who can't keep anything to herself. He's suddenly overwhelmingly glad that she didn't seem to pick up on any of the subtleties of Spencer's conversation with Pete on Friday.

Spencer fills his mug with coffee and heads back to his desk. He angles his chair so he's got his back to the room and he switches his cellphone off and tries to get on with some work. He's a normal guy, he thinks, just a normal guy who had an adventure after high school and then had to try and get on with his life. He's not the first person in the world who's found it hard to adjust.

\--

Lucy catches up with him at lunchtime, Hanim following closely behind. "Spencer?" she says, awkwardly, and every muscle in Spencer's body tenses. He looks up, warily, gaze darting to see if anyone else heard.

"What?" he asks, and his voice is tight.

"That's your name, right?" Lucy asks, hesitantly.

"It used to be. Not any more." Spencer's halfway through a cheese sandwich but it feels like lead in his stomach. He puts down the rest of it and wipes his palms on his jeans.

"But you know Pete Wentz, right? And your name is Spencer. Spencer Smith-"

Spencer swallows, and tries to hear over the rushing in his ears. "It's James," he says. "James."

"Right," Hanim says awkwardly.

Lucy coughs. "I just- We just wanted to say. I don't think anyone else knows. And we won't tell anyone."

Spencer looks down at the table, at the crumbs his sandwich has left. "Thanks," he says, finally, and his voice sounds funny. He stares down at the table until he hears the door close after them. He throws his sandwich in the trash can and goes back to his desk and wonders if anyone, anywhere, ever really and truly gets to leave their past behind them.

\--

It's funny, Spencer thinks, but he'd thought Pete leaving on Sunday would be the last he'd hear from him. By Tuesday morning, though, he's had two texts. The first text says, _save my number in case u need it. pete_. The second, _just in case u deleted it b4. save it. pete_. He doesn't send a message back, but he saves Pete's number in his phone because he can't think of a reason not to.

Work is okay. Tina keeps bugging him about Pete, asking if Spencer can hook them up. Tina, Spencer thinks, is a pain in the ass. Lucy and Hanim are more reticent. He thinks they're looking at him differently, though, only he can't tell whether they're surprised or shocked or just confused. It isn't a nice feeling and Spencer spends his time counting down the minutes until he can finish work and go home.

At home, he makes pasta and eats it in front of the TV in his bedroom, drinking cans of soda and eating his way through a tray of jelly donuts. He shuts his door tight and watches porn on his laptop and he comes three times before he finally falls asleep.

In the morning, the room smells stale, like old pasta sauce and spunk. He opens his window to let some air in and waits until he feels the chill on his chest. He has a shower and goes to work and he stops off at Starbucks like he does every day, taking a seat near the back and starting his new book. He'd picked it up from the library at the weekend; his criteria for choosing fiction is pretty flexible and mostly involves picking up something with a cover he really doesn't like the look of and hoping for the best. He's expanding his boundaries, he tells himself, because no one else is going to do it for him anymore.

He's reading _Heart of Darkness_, mostly because he couldn't help but be drawn to something short after _War and Peace_ but also because he's some sort of masochist at heart and he looked at the title and thought of friendship. Spencer thinks that choosing a book because the title gives him some sort of vicious stab of satisfaction makes him less of a person, but he's got it now so he may as well read it.

Five pages in, and Spencer hates it. It isn't what he wants to read. He stuffs it into his backpack and drains the rest of his coffee and nods to the barista on the way out.

\--

On Friday, they ask him if he wants to go out for beer and fried chicken.

Spencer shakes his head, because he can't think of anything he'd less rather do than go out. Lucy and Hanim have been eyeing him strangely all week, calling him _James_ in low voices with a significant edge he can't help but hear. Tina is still asking if Spencer can hook her up with Pete, and Spencer has just started rolling his eyes and walking away. She's halfway to driving him crazy, and Spencer knows that if pushed close enough to the edge he can flip out and start to shout. Instead, he says "No," and "I have plans," and he ignores Tina when she says _with Pete Wentz?_ Spencer's been brought up well, he knows that shoving people is wrong but he'd really like her just to shut the hell up. His fists clench by his sides and he ends up stuffing them into his pockets so he doesn't lash out and punch the photocopier.

Spencer goes home alone, instead. The apartment's quiet; no one's home. Spencer calls out for pizza because he's just got his paycheck and he ends up watching re-runs of _America's Next Top Model_ while he waits for the food to arrive. He's eating his way through a bag of cheetos when his phone beeps.

It's Pete's number, but the message isn't from Pete.

It says, _I wish youd let me explain. im sorry. i miss u. need u around. let me say sorry. ryan. _

Spencer holds the phone in his hand, looking down at the screen. He hasn't had any contact with Ryan in a year, and the jarring distortion of Ryan edging his way back into Spencer's carefully ordered, safe life makes Spencer's chest ache. He types _go fuck yourself_ with shaking thumbs and then carefully turns his phone off, lodging it down the side of the couch cushions.

When the pizza arrives, Spencer isn't in the least bit hungry. He opens the pizza box and eats every slice, slowly and methodically, until there isn't a crumb left in the box and Spencer feels so sick he might burst.

\--

He sleeps badly, getting up in the middle of the night because his stomach aches. He ends up sitting in the kitchen with Missy on his knee, toes cold against the tiled floor. He stares out of the window and thinks about changing his cellphone number or maybe moving somewhere else. He could do this kind of job anywhere. Maybe Minnesota. Or North Dakota. Or Texas. San Francisco. England. He thinks about leaving the country, about setting up somewhere else, some place new. Where nobody knows his name and nobody tries to find out where he is.

It's a stupid line of reasoning, because Spencer isn't a total dick. He's run away once already; he left the band and went home and then moved somewhere else where nobody knew who he was. He's done that and he thought he was some way to making a life for himself. He isn't sure he could do it all over again someplace new. He doesn't even want to; he wants to make it work here so that he can finally leave Brent and Ryan and Jon and Brendon (_Brendon_) and Haley and Pete behind him and move on.

He goes back to bed and dreams of the leaning tower of Pisa and the hanging gardens of Babylon. He's lying on the grass in one, staring up at the other. It's a nice dream, warm and peaceful, and he wakes up not feeling so ill at ease with the world.

He still doesn't switch his cellphone on.

He makes coffee, letting the steady drip of the filter lull him back into the land of the living. It's a nice day outside, chilly but bright, and Spencer thinks he might take his book back to the library and pick out another one that doesn't make him want to throw it against the wall, and maybe go down to the water and watch the boats before grabbing a coffee and then come back to the apartment via the grocery store.

He thinks that even if he _were_ to switch his phone on, then he only has a few names in the contact list, and out of those, he doesn't have anyone he can call up and invite over for the day.

Nothing's like it used to be and sometimes he misses that so much it's a physical pain across his chest.

He's got fresh coffee though, and he's got laundry to put on and groceries to pick up and he's got the whole day in front of him. Spencer's still okay. He is. He's still okay.

\--

He switches his phone back on after lunch.

He's done his chores and he's wiped down the bathroom because it was his turn (Jodie has a list. It's okay, Spencer likes the rigidity of expectation) and he's put on a fresh load of laundry and he's given _Heart of Darkness_ another go. He still thinks it's kind of boring and he's put it in his backpack to take back to the library.

He makes himself grilled cheese for lunch. He's getting better at cooking by himself, but sometimes he wishes his mom were closer so that they could hang out in the kitchen like they used to do at home, or maybe that he had more money or more friends so that he could eat out. He misses eating with other people, sharing food and laughing over dessert. He hasn't done that in a long time. Instead, he scratches Missy under the chin and opens a can of tuna fish for her. Missy noses at his palm as he spoons it out into her bowl, nose cold and wet against his thumb. "That's a good girl," he says, quietly, under his breath. Missy pushes past him to the food and Spencer's left stroking her tail and reaching for his phone.

Spencer doesn't read his messages. He just opens up a new text message to Pete, typing _dont give my fucking number out dickface_ and presses send.

\--

The library is full of kids and their parents, choosing books and talking loudly even in the quiet areas. The librarian rolls her eyes but she's smiling, wide and bright, and Spencer can't help but smile back. His cheeks ache.

"You've finished this quickly," she tells him as she scans his book back onto the system.

"I didn't like it much," Spencer admits, touching his mouth with his thumb as he sees his personal details flash up on her screen. He wonders whether he'll always be cautious of recognition, or whether it'll lessen with time. He thinks about changing his name properly, officially. His Mom would probably freak out, and secretly, Spencer doesn't want to give up his name.

"Conrad's a bit like that," the librarian goes on, disturbing Spencer's train of thought, "especially if you've seen the movie first. Never mind though, hopefully this time you'll find something you enjoy."

She's nice, friendly and breezy and already saying hello to the next person in line, but Spencer can't help but keep on smiling back at her as she takes the books off the teenager behind him. He imagines that she's got a nice life; an apartment and a husband and maybe even children. They probably have bills to pay and bicker over the TIVO. It'd be a nice life, Spencer thinks, just being normal. That's what he wants, really, more than anything; the anonymity of normality.

He spends too long by the shelves, thumbing the spines of the books, picking out one after another and discarding them and deliberately not thinking about Ryan. When they were kids, Spencer's mom would take them both to the public library. Spencer would pick a book at random that didn't look too long and that had a cool picture on the front (even back then, Spencer hadn't seemed to realize the value of looking below the surface). Ryan would pick one that was too old for him, with names and words and concepts he shouldn't have been able to understand. Spencer's mom would try and steer him in the direction of the children's library, but Ryan would stick to his guns and march up to the counter with his library card and his copy of _The Wasp Factory_, the librarian and Spencer's mom having some sort of silent conversation over Ryan's head. Ryan always did what he wanted though, regardless of other people. Spencer should have picked up on that earlier.

In the end, Spencer picks out _LA Confidential_, because the cover catches his eye and he can't remember seeing the movie. He reads the first couple of pages sat on the low chairs in the children's reading area, knees up by his chin. He probably looks weird but he doesn't want to make the same mistake he made with _Heart of Darkness_ and he likes being here, in earshot of the kids and their parents enjoying the weekend.

He reads fifteen pages and yes, he's still slow and there are probably kids in here who read faster than Spencer does, but he likes the way the book's going so he takes it to the counter with his library card and heads out into the chill of the afternoon.

\--

He's sitting down by the water when he finally takes his phone out to check his messages. There are two from Pete's phone and one from his mom, asking him how he's doing. He sends her a message back - _ok mom will call later_ \- and then takes a deep breath and opens the messages from Pete. The first one says _just wanted u to lstn to me. want to say im sorry. ur my best friend im so sorry._ It isn't signed but Spencer assumes it's from Ryan. His fingers shake and he puts the phone down on the bench beside him for a moment, trying to catch his breath. It seems wrong, somehow, to have Ryan - even the ghost of Ryan, in text message form - here in Seattle with him, like the carefully constructed lines of Spencer's life are starting to fracture around him.

Spencer doesn't know how to tell Ryan to stop trying, to leave him alone and let him get on with his life. Ryan never was very good at listening, but Spencer thinks that he can only take so much interference before everything starts to crack. He rubs at his forehead and thinks about deleting the second message. He tells himself that if the message is from Ryan - or Brendon (_Brendon_, god, Spencer hates giving Brendon headspace) - then he'll cave and get a new cellphone after work tomorrow. One with a new number and no contacts. Maybe, he thinks, he could be one of those guys who doesn't have a cellphone at all and he could have a speech ready about living a slower, electronics-free life.

Except his mom would worry and Spencer's worried her enough already.

He takes out a pen and his wallet and writes a shopping list on the back of a scrap of paper - hamburger meat, onions, chili sauce, rice. He thinks that he'll make chili for dinner and maybe watch a DVD; he adds popcorn and Pepsi to the bottom of his list. He folds the paper up carefully and slides it into the front pocket of his jeans, zipping up his backpack and holding his phone in his palm. It's getting colder as the day wears on; Spencer thinks that maybe he should have picked up a scarf before heading out earlier. His cellphone is cold against his skin. He opens the message, reading it quickly; it's from Pete, not Ryan, and Spencer sucks in a breath. _left phone out. rlly srry. wont happen again. dont delete me. pete._

Spencer thinks that it doesn't really matter. Ryan's always been the same; he'll have copied Spencer's number down and have it in his phone by now. Somehow the idea of Ryan having his number - even if he doesn't ever choose to use it - feels like an invasion of Spencer's privacy, the beginnings of the slow fracture of everything he's worked for over the past year. Ryan's sneaking into his life again and Spencer hates it. There's no place for Ryan in his life anymore, now or in the future, and that includes having a way for him to contact Spencer directly. He doesn't think that he's truly appreciated having his mom to hold Ryan off before. He sighs, shaking his head against the breeze, stuffing his cellphone into his back pocket. It's okay, he tells himself, fiddling with his backpack's zipper. It's okay. _James_, he says, quietly, and it still doesn't feel right but it's safer than _Spencer_ and he clings to it.

\--

The rest of the weekend is okay, if Spencer's honest. There are no more messages and although Spencer keeps eyeing his cellphone warily, it doesn't buzz. The rest of his Saturday is pretty quiet and by the time it gets to Sunday, Spencer has to find ways to fill the time so he doesn't have to think. He rattles around in the apartment without either Jodie or Michael around to distract him from himself. He watches _The West Wing_ and calls his mom and refuses to talk about Brendon and Ryan and Pete. "There's some mail for you," she tells him, "it looks like it might be from your lawyer. I've forwarded it on."

Spencer nods down the phone and picks at the knee of his jeans. They're pretty tight and he thinks maybe he should just give it up and buy a bigger size. Up until now his lawyer has been the closest link he's had with his past. He tells his mom he loves her and spends a couple of minutes on the phone with Crystal, then his dad, then Jackie. It feels good to catch up and Spencer misses them.

He's only just hung up when his cellphone rings again. At first he thinks it's his parents calling back, but the screen says _Pete_. Spencer can't be sure that it _is_ Pete and not Ryan, so he holds the phone in his hand until it stops vibrating. Spencer's heart's beating fast and he thinks _just fucking leave me alone_ and throws his phone across the bed. He wants to be _James_.

A text message follows a moment later, _its me asshole pick up. pete_.

Spencer sighs and closes his eyes, leaning back against the headboard. Pete's persistent and he's fucking annoying and when he wants to be, he's like a dog with a bone. There are good things about him, sure, but right now he's standing between the life Spencer had and the life Spencer wants. Spencer wishes he'd never fucking met him. He'd switch his cell off and just ignore him, but Pete's got the number of the apartment and Spencer really can't deal with Jodie or Michael having to answer the phone to Pete. When his phone starts ringing again, Spencer shakes his head and tries to stifle his anger and frustration as he answers.

"What-" Spencer starts, tiredly.

"I was so fucking angry with you," Pete interrupts, without saying hello. "You really have no idea."

"Fuck off," Spencer says, rubbing at his face with his palm in frustration. His beard is itchy to the touch; he sometimes thinks he'll never get used to the way it feels beneath his fingertips. "Seriously, Pete. Just fucking leave me alone. Let me get on-"

"Spencer, I can't even tell you," Pete goes on, ignoring Spencer, "I thought I hated you."

"This is a great conversation," Spencer tells him, shakily. He doesn't want _this_, he doesn't want anything to do with Panic! at the Disco or Pete Wentz. "Totally worth me picking up. Why can't you guys just leave me alone-"

"No," Pete says, forcefully. "Just listen, okay? For a minute?"

Spencer thinks about Pete hating him. It hurts, just a bit, even though Spencer's told himself a million times that it doesn't matter what these guys think of him anymore.

"You just- you _left them_, Spence. One day you were there and the next you weren't. You just upped and left. First Brent, and then you."

"You know why," Spencer says, sharply, unable to help himself. "God, if you'd found out that they were both lying to you, that they were keeping _that_ from you-" he swallowed, remembering the twist to Brendon's voice as he'd finally owned up. The sharp edge to Ryan's face when he realized Spencer had overheard. "You'd have done the same."

"Yeah," Pete sighs down the phone, long and hard. "Yeah."

There's a long pause and Spencer begins to wonder if Pete's still there.

"They told me then that they'd fucked up, you know," Pete says, after a minute. "Told me over and over it wasn't your fault. I dunno, Spence. They told me and told me that it was all down to them, but it was so soon after Brent left and you should have seen them, how they looked, I couldn't help but blame you-"

"I don't care what they looked like," Spencer said, tightly. "I just, I don't care. Get to the point, Pete. Tell me why I'm even listening to this shit."

"The point is," Pete said heavily. "Shit, I don't know. I thought if I ever saw you again I was going to fucking punch you across the room."

Spencer winces. He wants this call to be over, like _now_.

"You know they won't replace you, right?" Pete says, all of a sudden.

Spencer stares at his toes. Missy pads up the bed and touches at Spencer's belly with her paws, kneading the soft wool of Spencer's sweater. Spencer touches her behind the ears, glad of the warmth. Missy meows and Spencer gathers her up so her whiskers touch his face; it tickles.

"They've replaced Brent," Pete tells him. Spencer knew that, he'd still been part of the band when they'd gotten Jon down from Chicago to fill in for Brent at short notice, after Brent hadn't turned up and Spencer had drawn the short straw and called him to tell him not to bother coming back. "Jon's officially part of the band now."

He hadn't known they'd made it a permanent arrangement. It made sense, Spencer supposes. Jon's a good guy. "What's your point?" he asks, after a minute.

"They still act like you're coming back," Pete says, softly.

Spencer's hands are shaking. Missy shivers but stays still, her nose cold against his neck. "I'm not," he says, and Spencer thinks he doesn't recognize his own voice anymore. "I'm _not_."

"Session drummers only. They make a point of it."

Spencer puts Missy down, carefully. After Spencer had made that final phone call to Brent, with Ryan and Brendon listening on speakerphone, Spencer had - just for a moment - felt like it was him and Brendon and Ryan against the world. Just for a moment, before Ryan had disappeared to the back lounge and Brendon had pressed a kiss to the inside of Spencer's knee and disappeared for the rest of the afternoon, coming back drunk and shivering six hours later. They'd been missing a bass player for less than twenty four hours. "I don't-" his breath catches. "I don't want-" he can't say anything else, the words catching in his chest.

"Spencer," Pete says, and he sounds like he _cares_.

\- and Spencer _hurts_, he really hurts. "I can't-" he manages, "I thought Brendon loved me," he says, finally. It isn't what he wanted to say. He's rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hand, fingers shaking around the cellphone. "Don't fucking call me again," he says, as savagely as he can muster when he's trying not to fucking _cry_. He hangs up and hides the phone under his pillow.

It's a long time before he can stand up and leave his room.

\--

Spencer hadn't ever meant to fall in love with Brendon. He hadn't even noticed, not at first. He couldn't even pinpoint the first soft, slow shift in their relationship, the first time he'd thought about Brendon as more than just a friend. It had just been there in the background, the same way the thrum of the bus engine was, dimly registering somewhere below his heartbeat.

He'd met Haley somewhere along the way, falling soundly in lust with her the very first time he'd met her backstage. She was cute, and funny, and she knew just how to make him smile. She was really pretty, and he liked being out with her. The sex was good and she'd send him care packages with photos of herself and funny DVDs for them to watch on the bus. They had fun together and for the first time, Spencer had thought that he'd had someone around who actually genuinely wanted _him_, and hadn't just been one of Ryan's leftovers. He'd loved her.

He'd loved the way her skin felt beneath his fingertips, how ticklish she was in the small of her back, the way she'd laugh and open her legs for him. The way she sounded just before she came.

Spencer hadn't picked Brendon over her because being with Brendon was easier than conducting a relationship with Haley over his cellphone; Brendon had never been the easy option. He'd never been the replacement, there all the times when Haley couldn't be. It hadn't been that at all.

Brendon had always just been _Brendon_. He was stupid and loud and clumsy and ridiculous; he could sing and play just about every musical instrument known to mankind. He was all that and more. He could hide as much as he revealed; he was wide-open and unrepentantly honest, but hovering under the surface he was unsure and needy and desperate for affection. He clung to people, physically and mentally, but sometimes, he had this incredible stillness that made Spencer blink and bite back a breath.

It never meant anything, this thing between them, until it _did_.

Things didn't exactly change between them. If anything, they just stayed the way they always had. They bumped elbows in the kitchen, both reaching for the pop tarts or the cereal box. They shared sleepy grins waiting for the coffee machine to finish brewing, Brendon with sleep-mussed hair and his glasses on, his pajamas hanging low on his hips. They fell asleep on the couch in front of late night movies, waking up with Brendon's hair tickling Spencer's chin, Brendon wrapped around him on the narrow seat.

One Thursday morning in Illinois, Spencer had woken up early and wandered sleepily into the lounge to find Brendon half-awake and watching cartoons, halfway through a bowl of cereal. Spencer had leant against the door jamb and thought, _fuck, I love him_, and as epiphanies went, this one had kind of slipped in under the radar. Brendon had looked up from the TV and smiled at him, saying, "Scooby Doo, Spence. Come watch with me," and he'd shuffled over to make room for Spencer beside him on the couch.

He'd fallen in love with Brendon and he'd broken up with Haley; he'd come back and knocked on the door to Brendon's hotel room and told him that he loved him.

Brendon's face had slackened. He'd said, "Thank _fuck_," and pressed his mouth to Spencer's.

Spencer remembers what it felt like when he'd found out that not long after Brendon had kissed Spencer, mouthed _I love you too_ against Spencer's neck, he'd slept with someone else.

With Haley.

\--

Pete doesn't call back. Spencer tells himself it's a welcome relief, but he knows that really the damage has already been done: Ryan has his phone number and Spencer can't even think about who else might have it by now. His fragile peace feels threatened; he feels less like he's _James_ and more like he's running away from being _Spencer_. He eyes his cellphone warily, cautious about picking it up when it occasionally rings or buzzes a message. His apartment doesn't feel so much like a safehouse anymore; Pete's been in his room and even though he wasn't there long, Spencer can feel his presence in every corner, every shadow. It's tiring, and Spencer's sick of having to deal with it. He can't sleep properly and he hates relying on the sleeping tablets, he hates the way they push into his daily life and he ends up sluggish and half awake.

Spencer needs to get away. He needs to get outside of his head and stop dwelling; he needs to move on. He talks to Tim about taking some time off and calls his mom to see if he can come home. He ends up booking plane tickets for the end of the following week, five days back in Las Vegas with his mom and dad and Crystal and Jackie; he hopes that the change will mean he can get his head straight, even if the idea of being back in Vegas again is enough to make his head ache.

He puts the airfare on his credit card and stares at his laptop. Since he's moved to Seattle, Spencer hasn't been very good at going home. He knows that everything in his room, in his house, around and about in the mall and in the grocery store and out in his yard - they will all remind him of Ryan and Brent and Brendon. They'll remind him of band practices in his garage, school dances, Ryan sleeping over, Brent making Spencer laugh so hard his chest hurt, Brendon- _Brendon_. They'll remind him of that last time he was home before he'd split up with Haley, when he'd taken her home to meet his parents and she'd stayed with them for a week. They'd taken his car and he'd showed her the sights. He'd caved, because Haley had smiled and promised to blow him if they could go down to the Strip and take in one of the hotel shows. Spencer doesn't even remember which one it was that they saw - Debbie Reynolds, perhaps, Spencer was tired and he was only there because Haley wanted him to be and she was smiling and holding his hand and looking really fucking pretty. Spencer loved to look at her.

Haley made him laugh. She made him so damn frustrated he wanted to scream, too, but mostly she made him laugh. They'd bickered in the car five minutes after he'd picked her up from the airport in Vegas, some pointless argument he could barely remember. They bickered because they shared airspace, because that's what they did. They bickered because Haley wanted to go clothes shopping and Spencer wanted to go shoe shopping. They bickered because Spencer hogged the blankets. Because Haley didn't want to watch _America's Next Top Model_. They bickered and sometimes Spencer thought he'd be happy bickering with Haley for the rest of his life, because Haley made him smile and made him come and made him laugh.

Haley made things easier with Ryan too. All his life Ryan had been trying to fix Spencer up, dragging Spencer to parties back when they were fourteen and fifteen. Ryan had kissed girls and brought their friends over to talk to Spencer (_leftovers_, Spencer thinks savagely, six years on) and sometimes he'd end up kissing them out of boredom, sometimes they'd both make their excuses and leave. It hadn't stopped when they were in the band, either - Ryan pushing him towards the kids in the crowd, the pretty ones, the ones leaning against the wall, telling him to go and kiss them. Spencer had tried to say _no_, but Ryan had never been very good at listening. Ryan tended to think in terms of song lyrics; he wanted to live his life like a grand novel, like a broken love song waiting to be written. He thought in excesses and being around that all the time was _tiring_.

Sometimes Spencer kissed them and sometimes he didn't and then Haley had come along and suddenly Ryan had let out a sigh of relief and stopped pushing Spencer towards whoever looked pretty and like they might kiss him back. Instead, it made them a team, Ryan and Spencer with their girlfriends. An _us_ and a _them_.

Then, Spencer had realized that loving someone wasn't the same as being _in_ love with them. He'd looked at Brendon and thought, _I love you_, and he'd thought about Haley and thought, _oh_.

He'd thought, _oh_, and he'd sat down heavily at the table on their bus and thought _shit_. Spencer wasn't a bad person. He _wasn't_. He'd loved Haley but he was in love with Brendon and that wasn't fair.

He'd waited until their next rest day, done a complicated deal with someone involving cash he didn't have and had to beg off Ryan, borrowed a car and driven five hours to see Haley and tell her he couldn't do this any more.

She'd broken right there in front of him, cried and cried and begged him to change his mind and Spencer had had to fight to stop himself crying right there along with her. He'd pulled over, three hours into his journey back, pulled over and rested his head on the steering wheel and tried to remember how to breathe.

\--

Las Vegas is full of memories that Spencer hasn't dealt with yet. He can count the times he's been back to Nevada in the last year on one hand.

He'd spent Thanksgiving by himself in an empty apartment, talking to his mom on the phone early in the afternoon before saying he had to head out to his Thanksgiving dinner and hanging up. He'd eaten by himself in front of the TV, plates of tacos and a four-pack of beer. He'd watched the _Lord of the Rings_ movies back to back and cried when the crowd bowed down before the hobbits. He'd put his phone onto silent so he didn't have to hear people not wishing him a Happy Thanksgiving, and he'd finished off by eating his way through two big bags of M&amp;Ms.

He'd tried to avoid Christmas, too, but he'd missed his parents too much to stay in Seattle by himself. He'd kept his head down on the flight and stayed for just a few days, refusing to leave the house and sighing in relief when they went out of town to stay with relatives between Christmas and New Year.

He'd watched the ball drop at midnight at his aunt's house, Crystal sat on the sofa with him, Spencer with a glass of apple juice. His mom had kissed him on the forehead and said _Your aunt doesn't want you drinking underage, okay?_ and Spencer had sighed and leant his head back against the sofa and watched the clock tick past midnight and into the new year. He hadn't thought about how things might have been.

\--

Spencer has ten days to kill in Seattle before he can go back to Nevada. He's tense and not sleeping well, hollow eyed and distracted at work. Lucy eyes him worriedly, but he can see _Spencer_ on her lips and it makes him bow his head and concentrate on the desk in front of him rather than talk to her.

Tina keeps saying _Pete_ but Spencer just walks the other way. He thinks distractedly that Tina might be enough to drive him over the edge, so he forces himself to keep walking away. He grits his teeth when she talks to him.

On Friday, they ask him if he wants to come out for fried chicken and beer and he all but laughs in their faces. He thinks he can see their distaste drawn across their skin after he speaks, but for one long moment he really doesn't care. This is his life though, this is the life he's trying to cultivate and he's fucking it up. He calls after them and says _sorry_, says _I'm tired, gonna grab an early night_, and maybe this life isn't really the life he wants to be living but he's got to give it his best shot. He's got nothing else left.

He gets back to his apartment building and climbs the stairs tiredly. He wants nothing more than to change out of his work clothes and eat chicken pasta (Spencer is a careful cook. He's getting better, slowly, and he makes dishes that taste like basil, like cardamom, like oregano. He's proud of himself, proud of the way he's getting better, more self-sufficient, further away from the person he used to be) and he thinks that he might have some chocolate ice cream left over in the freezer to finish up with. He's thinking about ice cream, about chocolate sauce, about the weekend and about not having to pretend about how much of a relief the quiet is -

There's a cough. There's a cough, and someone clears their throat and it's Brendon, (_Brendon_), and he's outside Spencer's apartment.

"Hi," Brendon says, nervously, and Spencer can't speak.

Brendon - it's _Brendon_. Spencer just can't - he _can't_. He can feel the chipped wood of the banister beneath his palm. Brendon's wearing a jacket that's too big for him and his hair's gotten longer and he's biting his lip and staring straight at Spencer, shoulders hunched. Brendon clears his throat awkwardly.

Spencer thinks - _shit_.

"I know you don't want to see me, like, ever again," Brendon starts, and Spencer thinks _what_, but Brendon's already talking again, words tumbling over one another as he speaks, "and I totally get that and after this I'm gone, I promise, I won't bother you, I'm just -" Brendon's fucking _tiny_. He's tiny and skinny as fuck and Spencer can't help but stare. He's wearing jeans with a hole in the knee and well-worn converse with sharpie marks on the toes. His jacket is way too big for him, dwarfing him, and Brendon's closed in on himself, elbows in, eyes darting back and forth. There's stubble across his jaw. "-it's just. Spencer, you've got to forgive Ryan. None of this was his fault, it's not fair-"

Spencer starts. "Don't fucking tell me what's fair and what isn't." It's the first time he's spoken to Brendon in months and it hurts. His voice feels like sandpaper.

Brendon stills. "Spencer," he says, and he sounds, he sounds _raw_. "Ryan -"

"I don't want to hear this," Spencer says, in a low voice. It sounds savage to his ears and he barely recognizes himself. Brendon winces. "God, Brendon. What are you even _doing_ here?" He's got his keys clutched in his hand and he's holding on to them so tight he thinks he might draw blood. His slacks are uncomfortable and he was just in the process of undoing his coat as he came up the stairs, backpack off his shoulder and hanging off his wrist. He wants to be the other side of his apartment door. He's uncomfortable and he's unsure and in his head, Brendon was _taller_.

Brendon looks at him. "Look," he says, and Brendon's voice is shaking. "I get it, okay? I get it. I know you don't ever want to see me again. I know that, and I get why. I'm not here to ask for your forgiveness because I know I don't deserve it. I just - I'm here for Ryan, right? I'm here for Ryan."

Spencer blinks. He thinks, _Ryan_. Ryan, who'd lied to Spencer. Who'd been lying, who'd kept on lying, who hadn't wanted to tell the truth even when he'd been caught out. "Ryan always gets other people to do his dirty work for him," Spencer says, and if he could, he'd hate Ryan. He'd hate Ryan and he'd hate Brendon and he'd hate every moment of his time in the band.

Sometimes he hates himself because he can't.

"Ryan-?" Brendon looks confused, just for a moment. "He doesn't know I'm here."

Spencer sighs, dragging in a breath. He's so angry, he doesn't know what to do with himself. He's angry and his muscles are tense and his clothes are sticking to him and Brendon's standing in front of him and he's not how Spencer remembers him. He's smaller and more nervous. Spencer wants to hate him.

He hears the door open at the bottom of the stairs and before he knows what he's doing, he's pushing past Brendon and unlocking the door to his apartment. He doesn't want to have this conversation in public; he can hear footsteps on the stairwell and every step closer is another crack in the fragility of this carefully woven life he's trying so hard to maintain. "Come on," he says, tightly, pushing open the door. Brendon falters on the step.

"Come on," Spencer says again, and Brendon steps over, into Spencer's apartment. Spencer has the door shut before whoever it was had reached the top of the stairwell, before someone saw the two of them and thought- thought _what_? Spencer's a heavier, darker shadow of his former self, Brendon a ghostly reminder of the person he used to be. It'd hurt if this wasn't how it was supposed to go.

"Spencer," Brendon says, again.

"Shut up," Spencer tells him, tightly. He's listening for sounds in the apartment, for Michael and for Jodie. For Missy. There's the soft hum of the television, but that could be next door as easily as it could be here. He can't risk it. "Come on."

Brendon follows him to his bedroom, standing awkwardly just inside the door. Spencer puts his backpack down and shuts the door behind Brendon.

Brendon's staring around him in dismay. "Spencer," he says, and Spencer can't meet his eyes, can't look at him.

Spencer wants to peel off his clothes and put on his pajamas. He's so uncomfortable, so trapped in his shirt and slacks that he's finding it hard to breathe. "What?" he asks, more sharply than he would like.

"Is this-" Brendon stops, looks around. "Is this your room?"

Spencer nods, and resists the urge to look around. His breath is tight in his chest and his palms are sweating. He wipes them on his trousers. Brendon's jittery, looking around and stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Yes," Spencer says finally. "This is my life."

Just for a moment, Brendon looks utterly devastated, exhaustion showing in every shadow. It's hard to watch and Spencer ducks his head.

"I want-" Brendon starts to say but his voice catches. He stops, clears his throat. "Ryan misses you. Ryan wishes he could be friends again."

Spencer thinks, _Brendon wishes_, and stops thinking. "Ryan wasn't who I thought he was," he says, after a moment. He rubs the toe of his shoe against the worn pile of his carpet. "Neither were you."

Brendon's head shoots up, eyes wide. "Oh," he says, quietly. "Right."

Spencer _hurts_. He doesn't want to. He doesn't want Brendon to mean anything to him anymore, but Brendon was his friend first and everything else came after. Spencer's life had been Ryan and Haley and Brent and Brendon and each one of them had disappeared, one after the other, until there was nothing left for Spencer to go on for. Friendship left the biggest holes.

Brendon takes a deep breath, a gasp of air that sounds like he's trying not to cry. "Spencer," he says-

"Don't call me that," Spencer tells him fiercely, fists clenched in desperation. "Just- don't."

Brendon blinks, "What?" then, "Oh. Right." He looks so desperately sad that Spencer aches.

"_James_," Spencer says, more for his own benefit than Brendon's, barely audible. He isn't Spencer anymore. He can't be.

"I- I know, okay? I know that you don't want anything to do with me, and I don't blame you, but Ryan wasn't the one who-" he stops, hands stuffed deep inside his pockets. His jeans are hanging off him and Spencer can't help but think _fuck_.

Spencer bites back a laugh. "Ryan wasn't the one who slept with Haley," he fills in for Brendon, and he kicks at his backpack.

Brendon swallows. "Yeah," he says, his voice catching. "Ryan didn't sleep with Haley. I did. I did and- and it was the worst thing I ever did and I know why you can't forgive me, but Ryan _didn't_. Ryan didn't and you're holding the fact that I did against him, and you shouldn't be-"

"Don't tell me what I should and shouldn't be doing," Spencer tells him, shortly. He can't listen to what Brendon's telling him, can't think about him and Haley without remembering what it felt like to kiss Brendon, imagining what they must have looked like on the bed together, beautiful, gorgeous Haley and Brendon, Brendon who filled Spencer's mind. "Ryan lied to me and he didn't do it to protect me or even to protect you, he did it to protect himself. We weren't friends. Not like I thought we were."

"You're wrong," Brendon tells him, desperately. "He loves you."

"Yeah, well." Spencer shrugs, every muscle in his body taut. He can barely hear Brendon over the rushing in his ears. "Love doesn't mean anything."

Brendon just stares at him. "Christ," he says, and Spencer winces, because Brendon's given up the Lord but he hasn't given up everything that came with him. "Fuck, look what I did to you."

Spencer picks at his elbow and stares at Brendon, stares at him to show him that he's okay. Brendon's gotten so thin that Spencer can hardly bear to look at him. Brendon's tiny and skinny and jittery and his hair's a mess and his eyes are everywhere and he's _scared_. He isn't how Spencer remembers him.

He's been remembering him wrong.

"Fuck," Brendon says, running his fingers through his hair. It sticks up in places. "This- this isn't going to do any good, is it? I thought I could fix things, could fix something-" he stops. "I needed to fix this," he says, softly.

Spencer shrugs, eyes fixed on the carpet. "You can't," he says, equally quietly. "Some things just break, and you can't fix them."

Brendon swallows. "I want to make this better," he says.

Spencer shakes his head. "I don't think you can."

"I wanted to fix this for Ryan, at least-"

Spencer bites back a laugh. "Let Ryan do his own dirty work," he says again. His voice sounds bitter.

"You've got him all wrong," Brendon tells him. He's picking at his sleeve, pulling at the threads of his cuff.

This time, Spencer can't hold back the laugh. "Have I?" he says, and he can hear Missy scratching at the bedroom door. He doesn't let her in because he couldn't bear it if Missy went to Brendon. His cat's affection is the one thing he has.

Brendon stares at him for a long time. "I shouldn't have come," he says, eventually. "I should go." He's pulling at his cuffs again, one long thread.

"How did you get here?" Spencer asks, after a minute. He can't stop himself.

"I flew," Brendon says, carefully.

Spencer winces and thinks of Nevada. Next week, he thinks, and wishes it was now. "No," he says. "Not to Seattle. Here. How are you getting back to the airport?"

Brendon just looks at him like he hasn't got a clue. "I- I hadn't thought," he said, and this is _weird_. Brendon being here is weird. Spencer can feel the tautness in the air. "Cab?"

"I could drive you," Spencer offers, and he really has no idea why he does it because the idea of spending any more time with Brendon makes his chest hurt.

Brendon blinks. His fingers twist in his sweater and he nods a yes.

Spencer doesn't use his car that much and it's parked down the block. It's not the same one he had when he was in Vegas, the one he left behind when they went on tour. He sold it and bought a more reliable one to appease his Mom, who was worried about him moving out of state by himself with a car that still threatened to break down at every stop sign. It's pretty small and a couple of years old and it doesn't have a stereo, which is the first thing Brendon notices. Spencer can see him looking, looking at the gap on the dash like there's something he wants to say.

"You don't have any CDs in your room," Brendon says, when they're a mile away from Spencer's apartment building and neither of them has said a word.

Spencer's driving ten-two, fingers clenched on the wheel. He's remembering all the other times he's been in the car with Brendon in the passenger seat - music on, Brendon laughing, bags of gummy worms and strawberry laces littering the dash and the back seat. The awareness of what he's missing hits him like a punch to the gut. "No," he says tightly. "I don't."

"-and you don't have a radio," Brendon goes on.

Spencer swallows, and concentrates on the road. Foot to the pedal. "No," he says.

"Spence-" Brendon stops. "Sorry," he says, and for a moment Spencer doesn't know what he's apologizing for. His mind goes blank until he thinks _James_, and he lets out a breath.

They drive the rest of the way in silence, Spencer's hands hot and damp on the steering wheel and all Spencer can think about is the great gaping hole that exists where their friendship used to be.

Spencer pulls into a parking space - Brendon's got no luggage, not even a backpack or a messenger bag - and turns the engine off. "So," he says, because he can't think of anything to say to Brendon, anything that will make this okay or make him coming here worthwhile. It hurts, and Spencer's sick of hurting.

Brendon just swallows, leans over and pulls on Spencer's sleeve. "Fuck, Spencer," he says, and he doesn't apologize for using his name, doesn't even try- "Spencer, God, I'm so fucking sorry. Like, you wouldn't believe how sorry I am. I messed everything up, so bad, I messed us up and I messed the band up and I messed you and Ryan up and if I could take it back, I would. I really would. I've wished and wished I could take it back but I can't, I _can't_. I was stupid and I thought you didn't want me and I just wanted something that was _you_. Haley- she was the closest thing to you I could find and I'm _sorry_. Spencer, I'm sorry." He stops, just runs out of words and he looks so _young_, younger even than the first time he'd walked into Spencer's grandma's garage and promised them he could play guitar. He looks tiny and skinny and scared and Spencer keeps thinking about how Brendon's coat is just too big for him, about how it hangs off his elbows and his shoulders and the hollows of his collarbone. Brendon's too skinny and Spencer hates it, he hates how having Brendon around has made him feel, how he's suddenly having to think about things he's spent months trying to ignore. Brendon lets go of Spencer's sleeve and sighs, reaching for the door handle, pushing open the door.

"Did you ever love me?" Spencer asks, before he can stop himself. He wants to close his eyes in embarrassment, but he forces himself not to. He suddenly wants to know the answer, more than anything.

Brendon looks round, surprised, and he sits back down again. Spencer can see bewilderment written all over his face. "Fuck, Spence, yes." Brendon lets out a long breath. "You have no idea. Yes. I love you. So fucking much. You probably wouldn't believe how much."

Brendon doesn't duck his gaze and he's staring right at Spencer.

Spencer can't hear over the rushing in his ears again. "No," Spencer says finally, and he puts his hands back on the steering wheel. Ten-two. Safety first. "No," he says again, turning the key in the ignition. "I probably wouldn't believe it."

\--

Spencer goes back to his apartment, closes the curtains and shivers into Missy's fur, her cold nose pressed up against his neck. Outside, he can hear the pitter-patter of rain against the window and he thinks, okay. _Okay_. He doesn't think about Brendon.

\--

Spencer is woken up by the sound of the message alert on his cell phone. He sits up far too quickly, trying to blink the sleep out of his eyes and focus on the red outline of the numbers on his alarm clock, already fumbling for his phone and his bedside lamp even before the echo of the message alert has properly died away. He can't help but think that something has happened to his mom, to his dad, to Crystal or Jackie. It's the middle of the night – his digital clock reads _3.17am_ \- and his breath is tight in his chest. He's thinking _no_ and pressing the wrong buttons in his half-awake haste to read his message.

He doesn't remember that Pete and Ryan have his cellphone number until he's already clicked on the message envelope.

Spencer doesn't recognize the number, and the message says _Didnt send bden hes a dick who thought he could help. Dont fuck him up anymore he cant take it. Ryan._

Spencer's so fucking angry with Ryan right at that moment and he sends a text back before he can stop himself, saying _don't talk 2 me about fucked up. ur fucked up. u all are. leave me the fuck alone._ He throws the phone away from him, tosses it across the bed. It lands next to Missy at the bottom of the bed and she mewls angrily, Spencer reaching for her before she has a chance to run away. Missy is never very good when she's just been woken up and her claws are out - she catches Spencer across the throat with her paw.

He's trying to ignore the throb of the scratch across his skin, holding Missy too tightly when his cellphone beeps again. Ryan's message says _bdens already fucked up, doesnt need u 2 fuck him up more_.

Spencer is _angry_ and for once he lets it get the better of him. He tells Ryan, _bdens the 1 who fucked up. he knew i didnt want 2 c him_. Brendon's the one that fucked up. Brendon's the one who turned up on Spencer's doorstep, where he _knew_ he wouldn't be welcome. He doesn't want to hear from Ryan that Brendon _can't take it_, whatever that means.

Spencer's thrumming with frustration at Ryan's texts. A _year_ he's been engineering his life to get to this point, this place where he can get up every morning and not think about the way it felt to be on stage and to have his drum kit and his _friends_ around him. He was finally getting to the point where he could get through the day without remembering what it was like at the start, with Brent and Brendon and Ryan laughing and hugging and ready to take on the world.

He had gotten to a place where he could sit through his lunch break without staring into space and thinking about the end, when Brendon cracked and broke in front of him and Spencer just stared and thought _fuck_. When Ryan got angry and defensive and Spencer heard Ryan say that he cared more about the band than he did about Spencer's well-being. When Spencer had been the one who had fractured and broken, who had stood in front of Brendon and Ryan - with Brendon crying and Ryan angry and withdrawn and leaning against the wall like none of this mattered - and he'd felt something deep inside of him buckle and crack under the pressure. He'd thought, just for a moment, that the hurt might be too much to bear, except as time has gone on Spencer has come to realize that hurt is one thing that never stops.

Spencer doesn't wait for Ryan's reply. He types, _dont want him dont need him tell him not to come again,_ and it still fucking hurts, every single stupid letter he types.

He means it; he's spent hours trying not to think about how skinny Brendon looked in his overgrown coat, about how scared he'd looked at Spencer's door.

It would matter, it would matter and Spencer would care except it really doesn't and he _can't_. It doesn't matter because Brendon had told Spencer he loved him and he'd still gone out and fucked Haley behind Spencer's back.

Spencer holds the phone in his hand and he wants to scream and he wants to shout because this is _Ryan_. This is Ryan who listened to the Backstreet Boys with him, tried to learn to skateboard with him, and who said _be in my band, Spencer, we could rule the fucking world_. And Spencer had said _yes_, because it was Ryan and because Ryan was his best friend and that was reason enough.

Then one day Spencer had turned up to practice too early and instead of finding the place locked up and the lights off, he'd found Brendon with his head in his hands, sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, saying, "- I just need to tell him, if I just told him he might be able to forgive me," and he'd found Ryan shaking his head and kicking Spencer's empty drum case.

Spencer remembered thinking, _don't touch my fucking stuff._

Mostly, though, Spencer remembered hearing Ryan say, "You should keep your fucking mouth shut, that's what you should do. If you cared about this band at all, you'd keep this from him. This is my fucking band and my life and nothing is going to fuck that up. Not Brent, not Jon, not you, and definitely not Spencer. He's not going to forgive you, so don't fucking tell him. I don't fucking care who you slept with, there just isn't time to find a replacement drummer. So keep your fucking mouth shut."

Spencer has always told himself that Brendon fucking up did him a favor.

Another text comes in straight off the back of Ryan's earlier message. Spencer debates whether to read it or not but his anger gets the better of him and he can't help but open it. Ryan just says _Spence im so sorry i hurt u. That i kept things from u. That i wasn't the friend u thought i was. I miss u._

Sometimes, Spencer thinks, words are meaningless. _apologies are nothing_, he sends back, _they mean nothing_. There's a hole in his chest where their friendship used to be.

_Maybe they mean something to me and bden. Maybe they mean a lot to us._

Spencer switches his phone off and opens the curtains, pushing open the window and breathing in the brisk night air. There's a tightness in his shoulders he can't relax out of. Missy sits on the window sill and her tail knocks a pile of papers onto the floor; Spencer nudges them out of the way with his toe. He doesn't think about Ryan, about Brendon, about the life he had before he came to Seattle.

\--

It's actually kind of okay being back in Nevada. It's nerve-wracking – Spencer keeps looking around and expecting to see Ryan or Brendon or Brent on every corner. He tells himself he's being stupid but he can't help but remember previous times, previous drives where Ryan would be rolling his eyes at Brendon, Brent grinning and elbowing Spencer. He remembers a whole series of firsts: the first time they flew off for a tour, the first time they came home, that first time Spencer had brought Haley home. He can't help but feel scared; he's spent a year trying to leave everything he knew behind him and become someone new, become _James_, but back here he's always going to be _Spencer_. The disparity leaves him feeling torn and confused.

He's quiet and distracted on the way back from the airport, sitting in the passenger seat beside his mom, staring out of the window. His mom keeps looking at him out of the corner of her eye, but Spencer pretends not to notice. He's _home_, really home, back where he grew up and here he can't hide behind a name that's only partially his. It's disconcerting, being this close to everything he thought he knew; his stomach is cramping and Spencer's aware that he should be able to deal with this homecoming better than he is. Instead, he taps his finger relentlessly against the dash and watches the road disappear out behind him in the mirror.

Jackie and Crystal are waiting for him back at the house; Jackie in the hallway, Crystal sprawled across the couch, long legs hanging over the side. She's insouciant, watching the television and tapping out a rhythm with the remote control, barely controlled excitement thrumming beneath the surface. She's watching MTV and the alarm must be showing on Spencer's face because his mom is shaking her head and saying "Crystal, turn that off please – now".

Crystal sighs, but she does, flicking over to the Discovery channel and Spencer breathes a sigh of relief at the sudden cessation of the beat he's been trying so hard to avoid. "You're weird," she says, sitting up and poking Spencer in the leg.

"Says you," Spencer says, awkwardly, and then both Crystal and Jackie are pulling him down onto the couch and he fits in the middle perfectly. Jackie is slightly shorter and noticeably quieter but she's more tactile, leaning her head on Spencer's shoulder and curling her hand through his arm.

Crystal just taps the remote against Spencer's leg and says, "You pick something, Spence. Pick something," (Spencer feels the rhythm, feels it and itches to react, his toes curling. He grips his knee with white knuckles. _It's okay_, he thinks, _take a breath_).

"I don't know," Spencer says, and he _doesn't_. He's overwhelmed. He can't believe that he's back here, that there's noise and people and that he doesn't have to concentrate on keeping up his guard in case of discovery. He hears his name on their lips and it's _weird_. It's strange and Spencer isn't sure that he likes it.

There are pictures on the mantelpiece, pictures of Crystal and Jackie and Spencer and his mom and dad and his grandparents. There's a space to the right that they've tried to cover up, sliding Jackie's school photo into the gap, nudging the angle of his sisters' smiling on Christmas Day. Spencer remembers the picture that used to be there, the one of Panic! after they'd dropped their first album. The smiles, the hugs, Brendon's beaming grin as he rested his head on Spencer's shoulder.

He remembers the blood running down his palm after he'd broken the picture frame, the trip to the Emergency Room and the stitches across his thumb after he'd tried to pick up the glass shards from the carpet with shaking hands.

The gaps, Spencer thinks, are the hardest things to fill.

\--

His mom takes the day off work on Friday and it's just the two of them in the house. Spencer wakes late, and when he comes downstairs in a pair of threadbare pajama pants and an old baseball shirt of his dad's, his mom is sat out on the back step, smoking a cigarette.

She startles as he sits down beside her on the stoop, holding two cups of coffee. "I made you some," he tells her, passing her a mug. It's sweet and milky, full of sugar, just the way he's been making it for her for years.

"Thank you," she says, smiling awkwardly and tapping the ash off the end of her cigarette on to the paving. "Shouldn't smoke these anymore," she tells him with a uneasy shrug.

As a kid, Spencer would see his mom outside the kitchen door, leaning over the stoop and flicking ash into an old pot. Spencer can barely remember a time when he didn't associate the smell of smoke with his yard and his mom out on the back step.

"Yeah," Spencer says, although really he thinks that whatever gets you through the day – or night - is reason enough for carrying on, habit forming or not. He wiggles his bare toes, shifting on the step so that he's comfortable. He runs his fingers through his hair and rests his chin on his hand.

His mom lights the next cigarette off the tail end of her first, inhaling sharply. "We miss you, Spencer," she tells him, and Spencer thinks about all the times she hasn't said that, about all the moments in the conversations over the past year where she's stopped herself from telling him, stopped halfway through a breath or a word. He shifts uncomfortably.

"I know," he manages. Then, "I _can't_," and his mom looks at him, too knowing.

"You know-" she starts, after a moment.

Spencer's tired. It feels like he's been tired for months, perception hazy at the edges with exhaustion. His mom's hand is shaking, turning the carton of cigarettes over and over in her hand. There's a bottle of gin in the cupboard behind the brownie mix that his mom doesn't think he knows about. Sometimes he catches the frustration his dad tries to hide or he hears the unease in his sisters' voices when he speaks to them over the phone. He remembers the fights and he remembers the awkwardness and the restlessness. He knows more about the intricacies of relationships than he used to and he's unwilling to think too much about his parents' marriage. Spencer tends to think, well. That all relationships are ultimately doomed to failure. "Yeah?" he says.

"I blame myself," his mom tells him, too quickly. Her words fall over one another, "For you, for the way this has all turned out. I think that maybe I should have said _no_. Shouldn't have let you be in the band."

"Mom-"

"You're living this ghost life, Spencer. You're not even twenty one yet and you're not talking to your friends and you live this old man's life. You're so _sad_, Spencer, and I think that I could have stopped it. Could have just said no. Changed everything for you."

Spencer looks down at the step. His feet, he thinks abstractly, are weird-looking. "I'm fine," he tells her, tiredly.

"You could be at college now," his mom goes on, and Spencer thinks she hasn't even heard him, staring down at her cigarette, "and maybe you'd be calling me at Spring Break and telling me you couldn't come home because you were too busy partying, but I think even if I didn't see you you'd still be happy. You'd have _friends_."

"That's not me," Spencer says, softly. "That's not what I would have wanted." That's a lie, he thinks. Sometimes he wants that so badly it hurts, a physical pain across his chest.

His mom sighs, a long exhale of smoke. "It's okay, you know," she says, "to want that. It's not too late."

It _is_, Spencer thinks, and he remembers the college guides he put straight in the recycling without even opening the packages. It had been a stupid idea, he knows that now. He's already done the college experience, had the rites of passage, done the initiation and the hazing. It just hadn't happened in dorms, it had been in the back of vans and backstage in venues that smelt of smoke and beer. He drank with roadies and partied with Pete fucking Wentz and when he went on stage it was to the roar of crowds who screamed their names. He couldn't go back and go to college. It wouldn't – _couldn't_ – match up. Panic! has ruined him for everything; another reason to hate. "I'm fine," he says slowly, and he wonders when it was he stopped believing that.

His mom huffs a breath, and touches Spencer's wrist with her hand. She doesn't say anything.

"I saw Brendon," Spencer says, after a minute. He's staring down at his toes.

His mom's grip tightens around his wrist. "You didn't tell me that," she says.

Spencer shrugs, leaning forward so he's got one arm across his knees. He rests his chin on his wrist. "He just turned up on my doorstep." He remembers bouncing a tennis ball off the fence post at the end of the yard, hour after hour, day after day, Ryan lying beside him on the grass. "He must have gotten my address off Pete."

"Oh." His mom taps the ash off her cigarette. "And?"

Spencer closes his eyes, just for a moment. It's been a long year but he still can't get used to not having _friends_. "I don't know," he says, finally, because his mom is the only person he talks to. "He wasn't how I remembered him."

His mom's watching him. Spencer hates being watched. "In what way?" she asks, and Spencer shrugs again.

Spencer rubs his nose against his sleeve. "He seemed- smaller. And skinnier."

His mom rubs the inside of his wrist with her thumb. "Do you ever think you were remembering him wrong?"

Spencer's quiet for a long time, chin resting on his arm. His beard tickles. He wonders what he looks like, just out of bed and hair sticking up everywhere and morning breath. He'd always been fastidious about his appearance but he's a far cry from the version of Spencer that Brendon used to know, back in the day. "Maybe," he admits, after a while, thinking of the sharp angles hidden under Brendon's oversized coat. "He's definitely skinnier," he says, and the words are muffled against his forearm. He buries his face for a moment, squeezing his eyes shut. He tries not to picture Brendon, scared and unsure, hands deep in his pockets.

"Maybe," his mom says carefully, stubbing her cigarette out in the ashtray on the step beside her. There's a smattering of butts already in there, and Spencer wonders how long she spends out here, staring across the yard and smoking. "- maybe it's time to try and move on. Both of you."

Spencer shakes his head. "Mom-"

"No, Spencer." She hasn't lit another cigarette, but she's turning the carton over and over in her hand again. "I know that you don't want to tell me everything that went on between the two of you, but I do know that he let you down very badly. I know that you trusted him and that it's tearing you apart and it sounds to me as if maybe it's doing the same to him."

"I _loved_ him," Spencer says, tightly, because he can't not. "I did, and-"

"I know," she says, and she _does_. Spencer's never told her, but he knows she knows just the same.

"You think I should forgive him?" The words taste like acid on his tongue. They burn. He hasn't realized before how much he's been relying on his mom's support.

"I'm not telling you what to do, Spencer. I'm just saying-" she shrugs nervously. "People screw up and they make mistakes and sometimes they're the kind of mistakes you can't come back from. And sometimes you just have to find some way to move on and leave it behind you, whatever way you can."

"I'm moving on," Spencer tells her. "Seattle-"

"Your way of moving on isn't working, Spencer. I'm sorry, but it's not."

Spencer tries to swallow but he can't catch his breath. He wants to fucking _cry_. He blinks away the tears, struggles for control over himself. "Mom-"

"I've watched you be miserable for a _year_, Spencer. A year. And Brendon and Ryan have been miserable too. Brent's the only one of you who's getting on with his life."

"How do you know?" Spencer asks savagely. His hands are shaking.

"Spencer. I see Brent's mom at the grocery store. Ryan comes by every time he's back here. He calls to see if you've left him a message. Brendon called the night you met Pete. Brent's getting on with his life, he's gone to college. He's _happy_. You and Brendon and Ryan-"

Spencer tries hard to breathe. He doesn't think about him and Brendon and Ryan, all together, a triumvirate. He _can't_. He can't think about Ryan, the way he'd always said, _don't lie to me, Spencer, I couldn't bear it if you lied to me, never lie to me, okay?_ like he'd meant it.

"-you're all miserable and not dealing with this. Spencer. I care about _you_. I want the best for you. Do whatever it takes to put this behind you. Please. Don't let them hold this over you anymore."

\--

Spencer spends the rest of the day in his room with the curtains closed and the lights off. He shuts his eyes and thinks about Brendon and Ryan and everything in between. He hasn't let himself think about them for such a long time that it almost feels like he's doing something illicit.

He squeezes his eyes shut and thinks about his mom and moving on and what it might feel like to be free of the tightness in his chest and the strain that's etched across his skin.

\--

He's quiet the rest of the weekend. Jackie and Crystal more than make up for his silence, arguing about make up and television and what they're going to go and see at the movie theater. Spencer takes them early in the afternoon on Sunday, picking up popcorn and diet cokes and hot dogs from the stand in the foyer. Spencer keeps his head down; he's cautious about being seen in Las Vegas. He doesn't want to be seen by Jackie or Crystal's friends, all of whom know that Spencer used to be in Panic! at the Disco. He drives them to a theater that's a long way from the mall and their high school and far away from anyone they might know. Jackie grumbles, but Crystal elbows her and Spencer thinks that maybe his mom took them to one side before they left the house and told them to humor Spencer and his eccentricities.

They end up seeing the latest Mark Wahlberg movie, which Spencer can't even remember the name of once they leave the movie theater. Jackie liked it more than Crystal did, and Spencer's treated to a non-stop babble about how hot Mark Wahlberg is for the whole time they're on the freeway. Crystal – who is sat in the backseat of their mom's car – kicks the back of Jackie's seat and rolls her eyes at Spencer in the rear view mirror. Spencer thinks his sisters are kind of cool and he contemplates telling Jackie that he thinks Mark Wahlberg's pretty hot, too. He doesn't because he isn't sure how much his sisters know.

They stop at the grocery store on the way home, after their dad calls and asks them to pick up some garlic bread to go with dinner. Spencer leaves the engine idling and sends Jackie and Crystal in with some cash, his hands fixed ten-two on the steering wheel. They're close to home and there's a chance he might see someone he used to know.

He finds himself fiddling with the car stereo almost automatically, although it's been months and months since he's been able to listen to music without remembering what it was like to actually be part of _making_ it. It's the sound of a bass line that jolts him into the present, the rhythmic thump of a pop song he doesn't recognize and can't shake. He's already feeling for the beat, a staccato 6/8 he's measuring with his fingers.

The rhythm is the hardest thing to lose.

He doesn't sleep well.

\--

His dad takes the day off on Monday, and they drive to the aquarium to see the sharks. Spencer gets along pretty well with his dad but they don't have much to talk about; his dad is a nice guy but he was always a little uncomfortable with his son wearing make up or the kind of clothes they did when they were away touring. His dad had always liked Ryan, but he hadn't always been able to understand him. Sometimes Spencer thinks that he found Spencer's friendship with Ryan verging on the inexplicable.

He thinks his dad finds it easier to be around Spencer now that Spencer's grown a beard and lost the eye make up.

They're pretty quiet on the drive down to the Strip, Spencer staring out of the window and taking in the newer hotels and the people here on vacation, spending their money and laughing. Vegas always has had a pale underbelly.

His dad used to take him to the Shark Reef back when Spencer was a kid. They'd even taken Ryan once, but Ryan hadn't seemed to like the idea of animals in cages, even if they were sharks in a tank. Spencer hadn't liked to invite Ryan again.

It's a funny day, sort of awkward and comforting all at the same time. Spencer doesn't say much to his dad as they wander around the aquarium, reading the information panels and staring into the shark tanks. Afterwards, when they're in the gift shop, Spencer's struck with the overwhelming desire to pick Brendon up something. He'd like the stupid rubber sharks and the stickers and the ridiculous books of facts. Spencer's picked one of each up before he realizes what the fuck he's doing. He drops the gifts like they burn (they _do_, he thinks, and swallows thickly) and waits for his dad outside.

They end up having sandwiches in the café by the window, staring out and watching the traffic. His dad orders more coffee and they eat pecan pie and don't talk. It isn't bad.

\--

They're in the kitchen later that evening when Spencer finds out that Ryan's dad is dead.

Spencer's helping his mom with the dishes. His dad is in the living room with Jackie and Crystal, watching TV and Spencer can hear the thrum of the laughter track through the wall.

Spencer's not sure how it comes up, because he's steady and methodical at maintaining a credible distance between him and any conversation about the life he used to lead.

His mom's talking, rambling streams of gossip and news that she really should know that Spencer's not listening to. Spencer's drying (they've got a dishwasher, Spencer thinks, and deep down, he knows they've engineered this), and he's staring at the wall, at the bulletin board. The calendar on the wall is marked _Spencer home! _ for the five days he's back.

Spencer's drifting in and out of the conversation, hearing snatches of news about people whose names he vaguely recognizes, before his mom says "–and I don't think he's sold the house yet, but it must be weird for Ryan, living there without his dad-"

\- and Spencer's breath catches.

Spencer spends two minutes not-so patiently questioning his Mom. He finds out that Ryan's dad died of alcohol-related complications four months ago. He can't deal with the realization, can't process the information or digest the change. He can only see Ryan in his mind's eye, Ryan stood by himself by the edge of a grave, funereal and black around the eyes. "God," he manages, and before he knows what he's doing (he _doesn't_, he thinks, fuck, he really doesn't) he's taken his mom's car keys off the table by the front door and he's pulling out of the driveway in her car.

\--

Spencer hasn't seen Ryan since he walked out on the band, that same morning he'd found out about Brendon and Haley. He'd walked out of the practice space and across the parking lot to where he'd just parked his car, and all he can remember thinking about is _Ryan_, about all those years of friendship, about his best friend, this stranger he barely even recognized.

At the time, he hadn't even realized that he'd just lost Brendon too.

He'd still been thinking about Ryan when Brendon had found him, falling over himself as he stumbled, out of breath, into their hotel room, Jon and Ryan following. Brendon had grabbed on to Spencer's hands and he'd been talking too quickly for Spencer to make out what he was talking about. Brendon had been apologizing, saying "- it was one time, one night, Spencer, one night and it was a huge, massive mistake and I only did it because I thought you didn't want me and that's no excuse and I know I was wrong, but please, you've got to forgive me-"

Afterwards, Spencer had always thought that this should have been the moment he should have being paying closer attention to. He should have been able to recognize the sound of his heart breaking and his world falling in on him, but Spencer had been staring at Ryan instead. He'd been staring at his best friend who'd been leaning against the wall with his arms folded, muttering, "Christ, Brendon," under his breath.

He hadn't even realized Spencer had been watching him.

"- I'm sorry, she was crying and we both loved you, I thought you didn't want me anymore and it didn't matter if I fucked up-"

Spencer remember the way his chest tightened, the way he'd stopped watching Ryan and started looking at Brendon. He'd said, "What?" His hands had started to shake.

"Haley," Brendon had said, wildly, "Spencer, I'm so sorry you found out like that. I wanted to tell you myself-"

"You and Haley?" Spencer had managed.

And Brendon had just shut up and looked at him, straight at him. "Spencer," he'd said, so softly Spencer could barely hear him.

He'd always thought it was a cliché, but he was pretty sure he'd heard his heart break. His chest had hurt with the pressure and his breath had been tight in his throat.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Ryan had said, shaking his head and kicking at the wall. Spencer had felt the reverberation against his palm, flat against the wall. "He didn't know, Brendon, you dick. You screwed everything up."

Spencer had barely even recognized Ryan's voice.

He'd barely recognized his own.

He'd just dragged his bag out from down by the closet and started throwing stuff in it, tripping over Brendon's belongings all over the floor. He remembered not being able to see and having to wipe his eyes on his sleeve. He'd just started chucking t-shirts and shoes into his case and shoving Brendon's things out of the drawers and onto the floor, trying to find his stuff in among Brendon's. They'd been sharing, sharing everything, Haley, god.

Brendon had made a sound in his throat when he'd seen Spencer start throwing his belongings into bags; it had been a half-sound, a twisted gasp that had felt to Spencer like a sob. Jon had been trying to hold him back but Brendon had struggled free of his grip, taking things out of Spencer's bag, t-shirts, shirts, throwing them back onto the bed. Spencer had been pulling at them and trying to put them back in, twists of cotton color spilled out across the comforter.

"Please," Brendon had begged him, clutching at Spencer's shirt, "it was just one night, Spencer, one time, Spence, please don't let this be the end. Spencer, Spencer-"

Brendon had been pulling at Spencer's clothes and Spencer hadn't been able to look at him. Brendon had been his, _his_, and Spencer had been learning the map of his skin, contours and scars and thumb-prints. Right then, he hadn't been able to remember any of it.

Ryan hadn't said anything.

Brendon had still been talking, had still been tugging at Spencer's clothes and pulling at his bags. "Spencer," he'd said, "Spencer-" and then Brendon had been crying, loud heaving sobs that had caught at Spencer's fingertips. Spencer had been wiping at his own eyes with his sleeve. It had hurt, it had hurt so much that Spencer hadn't been able, he just-

\- he just hadn't been able to do it anymore.

"Fuck this," he'd said, and his voice had sounded different, thick and full. "Fuck this shit. Keep the fucking clothes, I don't care," and he had just zipped shut his duffle and grabbed his laptop case and his messenger bag and had tried to push past Brendon.

Brendon had stood in his way, begging him not to go, to listen, to understand. "It was a mistake," Brendon had told him, "I love you, god, Spence, I love you, please don't go," and he'd grabbed onto Spencer's biceps, fingertips digging in.

Spencer hadn't been able to push him away, hadn't been able to do anything. It was Brendon, _Brendon_, fuck, he'd spent the previous year falling in love with him and then that. He'd just stood there, with his eyes tight shut and Brendon hanging off him, fingers on Spencer's cheeks, his mouth, his neck.

And Ryan had just stood there, leaning up against the wall by the hotel bathroom, insolent, silent, slouching down with his arms crossed. He hadn't asked Spencer to stay, or tried to explain why it was he'd been so desperate for Brendon to keep lying to him, why it was that he'd given up the central and most important tenet of the friendship - _no lies, Spence, never_ – and why he hadn't once tried to stop Spencer from leaving.

Spencer had been so in love with Brendon he hadn't been able to see past that at the time, but his friendship with Ryan had been something he'd had his whole life. He'd loved Ryan more than he could verbalize; Spencer hadn't been able to remember a time when Ryan hadn't been in his life.

Even now he couldn't think of friendship as a construct without conjuring up an image of Ryan.

His mom had been waiting for him when his plane had touched down in Vegas. He hadn't been able to let her touch him, hadn't been able to fold into her hug because he'd been holding it together by a thread and nothing more. He'd sent a text message to Ryan, to Brendon, to Brent, to Jon, to Pete. He'd typed, _fuck this shit im done don't try and contact me I don't want to hear from you_ and thrown his sidekick into a dumpster.

Spencer hasn't seen Ryan since.

\--

Spencer can't think straight. He can't pull the two different sides of Ryan together in his head, can't reconcile the Ryan of their childhood friendship with the Ryan who'd stared at him with dead eyes and hadn't tried to stop him from leaving.

He pulls up outside Ryan's house and leaves the engine idling. There's a real estate sign outside on the lawn and no car in the driveway and Spencer really doesn't know what the hell he's doing here. He thinks that he's probably too late – four months too late, he thinks, because he doesn't care if he and Ryan are never friends again, Spencer should have been at the god-damn funeral – and that he should just go home again.

His cellphone is on the passenger seat beside him and he can see it vibrating with missed calls, his mom. His dad. He's taken the car and he's taken their keys and he's sitting outside Ryan's house and he really doesn't know what the fuck he's doing. He's flying back to Seattle in the morning and in some ways it can't come quickly enough.

He thinks he's probably been sat there for about twenty minutes when he's disturbed by a knock on the window. He's let the engine stutter into silence by this point, let the lights on the dash flicker into darkness. The sun is setting somewhere in the west, long shadows creeping their way across the street and down the sidewalk.

Ryan knocks on the window and doesn't wait for Spencer to wind it down. He says, "Are you coming in, then?" and there's something about the shadows under Ryan's eyes that makes Spencer nod _yes_.

Ryan doesn't wait for him to undo his seatbelt and reach for his cell and climb out of the car. He just sets off across the grass and back inside, leaving the door open for Spencer to follow.

Ryan's house is sort of the same as it always was, Spencer thinks, except for the grass being longer and the house smelling kind of different, sort of musty and cold. Ryan's duffle lies at the foot of the stairs, shirts and pants trailing out, and Spencer steps over it. Ryan's dad had been a stickler for tidiness, military corners and everything in between. Spencer says, "I'm sorry about your dad, I just heard."

Ryan puts his hands in the pockets of his jeans and says, "Okay. That's why you're here."

"You kept asking me to hear you out," Spencer says, roughly. "Over and over. This is your chance." He thinks, _your dad died and I wasn't there_. The least he can do is listen.

Ryan ducks his head and Spencer realizes Ryan isn't wearing any shoes. Just socks, socks that don't match with a hole in one toe. They're damp from where he walked across the lawn. "I'm sorry," he says, so quietly Spencer barely catches it.

"I know," Spencer says, tightly. "You've said already. But you haven't said _why_. Ryan-"

"Spencer," Ryan says, and he's looking straight at him. "I'm sorry, I'm really fucking sorry."

"Yeah," Spencer says again. "I don't need your apologies. I just-" he remembers the last year, day after day of replaying the same scenes over and over in his head. Trying to figure it out. "I want to know why." Spencer _needs_ to know why. He's asking, God, he's begging Ryan to tell him why the fuck this happened, asking him to justify it and make it okay.

Only- Ryan still isn't saying anything. A year on, months on, he's just the same. The realization crashes into Spencer's chest and it _hurts_.

Ryan's stood with his hands in his pockets, elbows out. He's skinny, Spencer thinks, but he always was. He's not Brendon with his hollow eyes and sallow skin. He looks tired though, his eyes shadowed in the half-light, and what's most noticeable is that he's changed his style. The make-up's gone, the sleek hair, the scene. It's just gone, replaced by an awkward stance and a bowl cut and a hallway full of shadows.

"Say something," Spencer says, awkwardly. He's trying not to beg. He's thinking about Ryan's new sartorial shift, wondering _when_. Ryan's styles have always meant something, inside. Spencer wants to pin it down, wants to know if this happened after Spencer left, after his dad died, something else entirely. He wants to know what's happened in Ryan's life; he wants his best friend back.

Ryan's still not saying anything, biting at his lip. "Spencer-"

Spencer waits, but Ryan doesn't say anything. He feels like an idiot. Ryan might sometimes be reticent about articulating what he's feeling, but he's not a fucking idiot and he does have some concept of the English language, so this just isn't good enough. _Make or break_, Spencer thinks. _Come on_. Ryan's all folded in on himself, all elbows and points and limbs and Spencer thinks, _this is your last chance, Ryan, your last fucking chance, don't screw it up_.

"God, Ryan," he bites, after a minute. "You've been trying to speak to me for a year. Now I'm here and you can't say a fucking word? What is this shit? You can fill an album with songs about how some girl screwed you over but you can't find anything to say to me? What the fuck, Ryan. Really."

Ryan shrugs uncomfortably.

Spencer feels the movement like a punch. Spencer thinks maybe he gets it now, maybe he knows for certain that the band really was more important to Ryan than Spencer ever was or ever could be. Ryan hadn't tried to stop him leaving before and he wasn't trying _now_. Maybe that was what he was apologizing for; maybe Ryan was sorry Spencer didn't mean _more_. Spencer thinks that maybe he'd never known Ryan at all, maybe he was wrong for all those years. It hurts.

"I shouldn't have come," he manages, after a moment, still swallowing down the hurt, "I've wasted my time. You've got nothing to say that I need to hear."

"Spencer-" Ryan says again. His voice sounds tight.

"Ryan-" Spencer says, and it's desperate and weak and he knows that, he _knows_ that, but fuck, _Ryan_. He feels like every muscle in his body is ready to snap and his fists are clenched because somewhere deep inside, he's missed Ryan so much that he's felt like part of his body has been gone this whole year. Spencer can't remember his life before Ryan was a part of it. He's his best friend; Ryan's been his family since he was six.

"Why isn't it enough for you? Why can't you just-" Ryan shrugs his shoulders, taking a breath. "-I'm saying sorry, Spence. I'm really fucking sorry. I want that to be enough."

Spencer thinks, _is that it?_ "Fuck this shit," he says softly. "Fuck this shit."

He'd thought that walking away the first time was hard, but the second time was humiliating as well as painful.

It hurt more, falling for it again.

He walks out of Ryan's front door, across the lawn and unlocks his mom's car, climbing in and dropping his cell on the passenger seat. He gets the key in the ignition and every muscle in his body is screaming at him and he can't help it, he looks back and Ryan still isn't coming after him.

He's not okay. He's really not. This has been the loneliest year he could possibly have imagined and just for a few minutes he let himself believe that Ryan could do something to make that better. He wanted to believe in him so much that now he's back in the car, everything hurts with the strain of just trying to keep it all together.

This is it, Spencer thinks. This is it.

He thinks that he's finally got what he wanted these last few months, he's finally got Brendon and Ryan to leave him alone for good. This is what he's wanted, what he _wants_ -

\- he can't breathe. He wants Brendon back, he wants Ryan back. He wants Brent back in the band, he wants his friends back, he wants his life back, he wants – he _needs_. There isn't a single part of his life that's better off without Ryan being his best friend or Brendon being in his life, boyfriend or not. He misses Brent, the Brent from before who used to play video games with him and kick him under the table in diners, when Ryan and Brendon were arguing about chord progressions across the table. He's tried to fill the gaps that their friendship left, tried to tell himself it doesn't matter, tried everything he can think of to stop it hurting, and nothing's worked. It hurts. It _hurts_. He hurts.

His mom and dad are waiting up for him, sitting in the lounge with cooling cups of coffee and the phone on the table beside them. He doesn't look at them, doesn't, can't, just drops the car keys back onto the side table and goes up to his room. He can't get the door open, can't get his fingers to work, but he's pushing and gasping and letting it shut fast behind him once he finally gets inside.

He can't even get across the room to his bed, just falls against the wall. He leans his face against his hands and closes his eyes, squeezes them shut. He can't breathe. He wants it all back again, wants the last year gone. He _wants_.

\--

Everything's the same when he opens his eyes.

\--

Spencer's woken up at just after six in the morning by someone banging on the front door. For a moment, he thinks he's missed his plane, but he rubs at his eyes and looks at his watch and shakes his head. He'd taken a sleeping pill to try and get some sleep and he's left fighting the prescription, struggling to keep his eyes open as he hears his mom and dad going downstairs, the banging stopping abruptly as they open the door. He can hear his sisters opening their bedroom doors, peering down over the banister.

Spencer buries his head under the covers. His heart feels like it's broken all over again and he just, can't. He doesn't think he can do this all over again.

He misses his cat (not even his, he thinks, sadly, and wonders if Jodie has remembered to feed Missy her treats since he's been away. He'll have to feed her extra ones when he flies in this evening, just to show her that he's missed her).

It'll be a relief to get back to normality, he tells himself.

His mom is knocking on his bedroom door, "Honey? Honey, it's Ryan. He's here and he wants to talk to you. He says you went round there, and he says he won't go until he's spoken to you."

Spencer fucking _hurts_. He rubs at his eyes and nods an okay and then Ryan's pushing past Spencer's mom, into his room and Spencer's still in bed, still can't wake up.

He rubs his face against the comforter. He's still wearing his dad's old baseball shirt and his old plaid pajama trousers, and he's pushing back the covers and getting up, trying to fight off the remnants of the sleeping pill. It's hard, trying to steady himself, stop the pull.

"Ryan?" Spencer manages, after a few moments. He stands up and leans against the closet door.

Ryan's at the end of his bed, clutching a sheaf of papers in his hands. He shakes his head, "Spencer, Spence, just listen-"

Spencer's head is a marshland, a quagmire of sleep and hazily recognizable hurt. He nods, tiredly. He's struggling to keep his eyes open.

"Spencer, I," Ryan starts, and he's talking, _now_ he's talking, at six in the morning when Spencer's trying to shake the sleep from his thoughts, "You're my friend, my best friend-"

Spencer's trying his best to listen, trying to pay attention as Ryan tells him about all these times when they were kids and best friends. Spencer knows all of this, he was _there_. He knows about the time they were doing wheelies on their bikes and Ryan fell off and Spencer ran and got his mom. He knows about doing stupid dance routines in Spencer's back yard, he knows about how awesome a friend he was when they were little. He _knows_.

"And you'd always do what I wanted," Ryan goes on, "in the end. Like a puppy dog or something."

Spencer's head shoots up. He meets Ryan's gaze head-on. "What?" he says, because there's no way on earth that sentence could ever not hurt. He feels like he's been punched in the gut.

"I didn't think about it like that then," Ryan says, "I didn't manipulate your whole childhood. It just- it came to me. Last year. That that's what I'd done."

"Right," Spencer says, because he has to say something. Ryan looks wild-eyed and disheveled; Spencer thinks that Ryan hasn't been to bed. He's crumpled and his shirt is coming un-tucked from his pants. There's a stain on his thigh, cold coffee perhaps, and marks on his cheek from where he's been leaning against something. He wants to be able to hate Ryan, he really does. He wants to be able to put all of this behind him, to be able to get on with his life without Panic! at the Disco always hovering at the peripheries of his vision.

He wants it to stop hurting.

Ryan's still talking. He's talking about going to parties when they were in high school, parties with kids from Ryan's school, parties with kids from Brent and Brendon's classes. He's talking about the parties where Ryan would take Spencer along because Spencer was his best friend.

Spencer remembers those parties. He remembers being the stupid fat kid that no one apart from Ryan knew, he remembers Ryan going off with girls and trying to fix Spencer up, he remembers _those_ parties.

"I took you to those parties because I needed you to see them," Ryan tells him, without meeting Spencer's eyes, "because I needed you to know what they were like."

Spencer doesn't say anything. "Right," he manages, again. He doesn't know what Ryan wants him to say.

"I needed you to be a part of my life," Ryan says, "because you're my best friend and there's nothing in my life that means anything if you don't experience it with me."

Spencer has a bad taste at the back of his throat that he can't place; it's something different from the familiar dark aftertaste of the sleeping pill. He swallows, hard.

"You're my family, Spence. You're the only person in my life I would trust to be my family. You've been my family since I was a kid, and when I screwed up, when, when you went, I felt like I couldn't breathe without you. Like I couldn't experience life anymore because you weren't there to experience it with me. Like I was missing a brother."

Spencer rubs at his eyes with his palm. He wants to cry. He wants Ryan to have said this a year ago, last night even. He doesn't know whether it's too late or not.

Ryan stops, fumbling through his papers. He's written a fucking speech. He's not reading anymore though, just staring straight at Spencer. He says, really quietly, really softly, "You're my best friend, Spencer Smith. You're my best friend and the closest thing to a brother I've ever had and I love you. The reason I couldn't explain, and tell you why I was so sorry I hurt you is because I don't have the words. I don't know how to say it so it makes things up to you."

Spencer's breath catches in his throat, because he really is crying and he doesn't know how to stop himself. He tries to wipe his eyes on the sleeve of his baseball shirt without Ryan seeing, turning to face the wall.

Ryan can see. Ryan can see and Spencer thinks that Ryan's eyes are looking pretty red too. Ryan's dropping bits of paper on Spencer's carpet. "I just-" Ryan says, and he's looking through his notes, trying to find his place. "When I thought about the band breaking up," he says, "whenever I thought about Brent leaving and it just being us three, just being me and you and Brendon- my chest hurt and I couldn't breathe. I needed the band, Spencer, it meant everything to me and I thought I needed it more than I needed anything else in the whole world, Spence. I thought that the band was my security. That music, and songs, and recording deals and albums, I thought that they were my security. That I could protect the band, protect that, protect me. I thought I wouldn't be able to go on without the band."

Spencer tries to swallow. He wipes his cheek against his sleeve.

"It turns out," Ryan goes on, "it turns out I was wrong. Never been more wrong, in fact. There can be other bands. Other songs, other albums. There can even be other Brents. Turns out, there can't be another you."

"Right," Spencer says, again.

"So," Ryan says, and he hasn't got any papers left that Spencer can see. He's looking red-eyed and exhausted and wild. "That's why. I was scared, Spence. I didn't know what I'd do with my life without the band. I was pretty horrible to Brendon, tried to get him to keep it quiet-"

"He deserved it," Spencer says, tightly.

"Don't," Ryan says, sharply. "You, you haven't been there. He made a pretty terrible mistake, Spence, but I'm done making Brendon pay."

"Yeah, well," Spencer manages. He keeps picturing Brendon in his hallway, his coat hanging off his shoulders.

"I mean it," Ryan says. "I blamed him for ruining everything. Took it all out on him. I was so caught up with the band being okay that I didn't- I screwed up, Spencer. I never tried to make you stay because I figured that the band could carry on without you. That I'd be okay if the band was, that I could be okay without you."

Spencer couldn't speak. He thought he'd sustained all the hurt he possibly could, but it turned out he was wrong about that too.

"I'm not okay without you," Ryan says, quietly. "Don't know if I ever will be. Best friend, Spence. Family."

Spencer nods, awkwardly, because he still can't speak. His fingers touch at the flecks in the wallpaper beneath his palm.

"Right," Ryan says, and he's scrubbing at his face with his sleeves and trying to gather all his bits of paper and leave them in a pile at the foot of Spencer's bed. A speech, Spencer thinks, and he wonders at Ryan's ability to communicate. Spencer's watching Ryan's hands, seeing them shake. "We're – we're not going to replace you," Ryan says, abruptly. "We're not. You can come back. Whenever."

"I won't," Spencer says, his thumb picking at the corner of his bookshelf. "I'm not-"

"Still," Ryan says. "Yeah."

Spencer doesn't know what to say, even if he could. He watches as Ryan neatens up the pile of papers at the foot of Spencer's bed. Ryan reaches out a hand, just for a moment, towards Spencer, but Spencer can't move, so Ryan just puts his hand back in his pocket and turns towards the door.

After Ryan's gone, Spencer thinks that his mom must have been waiting in the hallway, because she brings him coffee and lets him blow his nose and stands by the window looking out into the yard until Spencer's gotten himself under control.

His mom puts her hand on Spencer's shoulder and says, "I'll make you breakfast. You and me. We'll eat it in the yard and have your dad make us more coffee."

Spencer nods, because anything else is beyond him.

He sits outside on the stoop with his mom and they eat bowls of cereal and a tub of fresh blueberries. His dad brings them cups of coffee and stands on the grass next to them, hands on his hips. His dad asks what time his flight is, and works backwards, telling Spencer what time they'll need to leave.

Inside, Jackie and Crystal are getting ready for school, arguing over flat irons (they could use his, Spencer thinks, but he doesn't tell them) and running up and down the stairs to pick up school books they've forgotten.

They haven't left enough time to say goodbye properly, but Crystal holds out a fist with a serious expression on her face. Spencer nods, bumping his clenched fist against hers. Crystal grins. "Be cool," she says, and Spencer wants to laugh. He doesn't.

Jackie ducks her head under his arm and presses herself to his side for a moment. Spencer pokes her in the side with the tip of his index finger until she giggles.

Spencer packs his belongings carefully into his suitcase. He doesn't have a duffle anymore, doesn't travel haphazardly in backpacks. He has a suitcase he bought from the luggage section of a large department store. It has wheels and an extendable handle and a combination lock; inside, there are zips and compartments and pockets. It's easy to pack into, easy for Spencer to compartmentalize. He folds Ryan's papers in half without looking at them and zips them into one of the pockets in the hood.

\--

His mom and dad drop him off early at the airport. His dad shakes his hand and helps him with his suitcase. His mom wipes imaginary fluff off his shirt and tells him to put his sweater on when he gets on the airplane. "Yes, Mom," he says, rolling his eyes.

His hands are shaking.

He presses a kiss to her cheek and stuffs his hands in his pockets. "I'll call you when I get there," he says, as she envelops him in a hug. His nose is pressed against her neck and he has his eyes squeezed shut. "Go on," she says, sniffing and touching at his shoulder. "You should go check in."

Spencer stands inside the doors of the airport, carefully shadowed by a giant advertisement for Virgin Atlantic, and watches his parents' car until he can't see it anymore, until it's a blur in the traffic on the horizon and nothing more.

\--

Seattle is much the same as Spencer left it. Missy curls into his chest as soon as Spencer lets her, as soon as he's got his case into his room and he's deposited the bags of groceries by the sink in the kitchen.

"She's missed you," Jodie tells him, coming into the kitchen and pouring herself a glass of water.

Spencer nods, standing up and letting Missy press her face into his neck. He strokes her, scratching in between her ears. Her nose is cold and Spencer closes his eyes, swallowing hard. This is it, he thinks, this is it.

He makes pasta with a tomato sauce and eats it looking out of his window in the dark in his bedroom, the curtains open and the streetlights down below. Afterwards, he unpacks his suitcase and puts a load of laundry on. He leaves Ryan's papers folded in the pocket of his suitcase, carefully running his thumb over the zipper before closing the case and putting it on the top shelf in his closet.

\--

He doesn't join the others on their regular Friday nights for a couple of weeks or so. He pretends he has other plans, waving their invitations off with a roll of his eyes. Instead, he goes home and switches his laptop on, surfing past sites and playing Scrabble online. He's getting better and he thinks that maybe he might be able to beat Michael someday.

Michael has a girlfriend now, a sweet girl named Rachel, who Spencer occasionally meets in the kitchen or coming out of the bathroom. She saves him a slice of pie when she comes round to cook for Michael, smiling as he gets cream on his cheek and passing him a napkin. Sometimes he's in his room and he hears them laughing through the wall and just for a moment, he's back on the bus or backstage or in a hotel suite.

On nights when Rachel stays over, Spencer refuses to take his sleeping pills, lying awake instead and hearing the soft muffle of voices through the wall. He lets his fingers trail over the wallpaper, pressing up against the wall and remembers what it felt like to have the road roll away beneath his feet.

\--

When he finally agrees to join the others for drinks and fried chicken after work, it's kind of an accident. He's staring out of the window instead of working, tapping his pen against the edge of the desk and feeling out the bass with his toes. Tina sits on the corner of his desk, poking at his shoulder with her pen. "Hey," she says, "James."

Spencer jumps, automatically squaring his shoulders.

Tina's face betrays her mistrust, but the shadow shifts in a moment. "James," she says, again. "Lost in your own world, huh?"

Spencer relaxes his posture. "Yeah," he says, deliberately softening his voice. "Sorry."

"No worries," Tina says, crossing her legs. Spencer thinks he can see Hanim and Lucy watching him from across the office. He hasn't spoken to either of them properly in weeks. He thinks that maybe he should. "So, drinks?"

Spencer wants to shake his head – he thinks that maybe he'll go home and watch a movie, maybe surf the internet and watch some porn, something with boys that look nothing like Brendon (Brendon, he thinks, and Ryan, _I'm done making Brendon pay_) and before he knows what he's doing, he's saying "Yeah, okay, sure."

They go back to the place they went to the night Spencer saw Pete. He sees Lucy and Hanim eyeing him curiously but he's careful to keep his face steady. He doesn't know whether Tina remembers, but he thinks she probably does. There's a twist to her smile and when they're all sat down she leans over and says "Are you ever going to fix me up with Pete Wentz, James?"

And Spencer thinks, _ah_. "Probably not, no," he says. He taps at the table with his fingertips, a four-four rhythm with a twist underneath, a shuffle here, a paradiddle – he stops.

"Drink?" Hanim asks, and Spencer doesn't know if he's interrupting on purpose, because Hanim's face is giving nothing away, but Spencer smiles awkwardly and nods.

"Thanks," he says, reaching for his wallet. It's in his backpack and he has to lean over because he's kicked it under the table. "Beer, please."

Hanim shakes his head when Spencer offers him money.

"It's on me," Hanim says. "You can get the next one."

Spencer nods. "Okay," he says, and he tries to quash his apprehension at being beholden. Spencer hasn't owed anyone anything for a long time.

Lucy sits down next to him and asks him about what he's reading at the moment and it's enough to put Spencer at his ease. He likes that this is a conversation his old friends wouldn't expect him to have; he likes that Ryan would never expect it of him and Ryan had always thought he'd known everything there was to know about Spencer.

They talk about William Golding, because Lucy's reading his sea trilogy, and when she says she thinks the style is similar to Conrad, Spencer reminds her how much he hated _Heart of Darkness_. Spencer can't properly express his hatred for Joseph Conrad (based on his five pages of experience) and Lucy laughs, hand across her mouth.

They eat plates of wings and bowls of chips, the waitress bringing them bottles of beer. Tina is down at the other end of the table, introducing her new boyfriend to Alison and the others, but up at Spencer's end they're picking at a plate of nachos and talking about their favorite movies as a kid. They're talking about Spencer's dad's collection of _Indiana Jones_ and _Back to the Future_ movies and Spencer can't help but think about him and Ryan, lying on their stomachs on the floor in the den, watching his dad's videos as the rain fell outside.

He remembers the long night on the bus where they watched all of the _Indiana Jones_ movies back to back, Ryan sprawled across the couch, Brendon kicking him, his head resting against Spencer's thigh. Spencer had found himself playing with Brendon's hair, thumb above his ear. He hadn't even realized he was doing it and it had only been when Brendon's hand had closed around Spencer's wrist that he'd stopped. He'd managed a _sorry_, but Brendon had just shaken his head, rolling over and looking up at him. "I like it, don't stop," Brendon had said, and he'd smiled and Spencer's heart had skipped a beat.

He wonders why it was that they never made it official, why they'd kept this thing between them deliberately nameless, and he can't think of an answer.

He doesn't notice the change in the music until it's three bars in and by then it's too late. His head shoots up and he's staring at the jukebox. He swallows, closing his palm around the remains of his bottle of beer. It's one of theirs: it's Brendon's voice, Ryan's words, his rhythm. It's there, creeping down Spencer's spine, twisting at his skin. He's hearing himself play, feeling his drumbeat underpinning the song. He's back there in the studio, with Brendon laughing under his headphones, they're in the apartment, battling over Halo, they're on the bus and kicking each other to go and get more chips. They're on stage, Spencer on his raised plinth, Brendon kneeling in front of Ryan, Brent grinning. There's just the three of them, just for a moment, just him and Ryan and Brendon and it's just the three of them against the world, Brendon kissing him good morning and tasting like sleep and late night pizza.

It doesn't hurt as much as he thought it would, hearing Panic! again for the first time since it all went to shit.

"Spencer?" Lucy asks, fingers on his sleeve.

"Yeah?" Spencer says, without thinking. He looks at her and swallows. "Yeah?"

Lucy nods, slowly. "Okay?"

"Yeah," Spencer says again.

He maybe kind of is.

\--

Spencer's cellphone rings as he's leaving work for the day. He's tugging at the broken zipper on his backpack, holding his book in one hand and an envelope between his teeth, trying to find his cell under his lunchbox and his sweater. He's trying to make the crossing before it changes to _don't walk_ and he doesn't really stop to think about who it might be on the other end. He just answers and says "Hello?", getting to the street just as the lights change. He doesn't realize it's Ryan he's saying _hi_ to until it's too late, until he's trying to shut his backpack and balance the cellphone between his ear and his shoulder and trying not step out in front of oncoming traffic.

"Don't hang up," Ryan says, without saying hello.

Spencer thinks _okay_, and doesn't. He ducks back into the alleyway running along the side of his office building and leans against the wall.

"Spencer?" Ryan asks, after a moment.

"I haven't hung up," Spencer says, and he doesn't know what he's doing. He taps at the bricks with the tips of his fingers.

"Right," Ryan says, "yeah. So - how are you?"

"Not really in the mood for small talk," Spencer manages, tightly. He's _not_.

"Right," Ryan says again. "I'm okay," he tells Spencer, as if Spencer has asked. He hasn't.

Spencer nods.

"So, yeah," Ryan goes on. Spencer begins to think that Ryan might be the least articulate person he's ever come across. He wonders why he hasn't come to this conclusion before. Ryan clears his throat. "Yeah, so. There's this benefit that Pete's been asked to perform at, this thing in New York and he wants us to play. Like, Panic!. And we want you to play with us."

Spencer tries to ignore the rush of blood to his ears. There's a long moment where neither of them say anything. "What's it for?" Spencer says, eventually, and it isn't the _no_ he was planning.

"Um, yeah. It's raising awareness for kids with problems. Like, emotional problems. Mental health problems. Depression and stuff. It's okay to say you need help, or something. Pete's really enthusiastic about it."

"Yeah," Spencer says, because Pete would be. "When is it?"

There's the rustle of paper at the other end. "Sixteenth of next month," Ryan says. "You'd need to fly out a few days earlier, maybe the twelfth? We'd book some rehearsal space."

Spencer swallows. It sounds loud to his own ears. "Right," he says. "I'll think about it."

"Yeah," Ryan says, again, and Spencer hangs up and goes back to stand with everyone else at the edge of the street, waiting for the lights to change to _walk_.

\--

Spencer doesn't think about it for a couple of days. He carries on as normal, going to work, eating his lunch at the table in the breakroom, flicking through a battered copy of National Geographic or reading his library book. He's reading Harry Potter – which he was kind of embarrassed about at first, because it's a kid's book and he's an adult taking it out of his backpack every day without fail. Still, he likes it and it's the first in a _series_, so he can read and read and read without ever having to think about the benefit concert at all. Sometimes Lucy comes and joins him, sitting down with an awkward smile and pulling out her copy of _Close Quarters_. At home, he sometimes hangs out with Michael and Rachel, joining them if they're watching a movie and contributing popcorn to the mix. Being around people is nice, Spencer thinks, nicer than he'd thought it was going to be.

He waits a week before contacting Ryan. He sends him a message: _tell me where i need to be + when_. He types out his email address carefully on his cellphone keypad and presses send.

Afterwards, he lies down on his bed and lets Missy curl up in the small of his back. He lies like that for a long time, trying to remember how to breathe.

\--

He takes ten days off work, and he's deliberately evasive when Tim asks him what he's going to be doing with his vacation time. He just shrugs, but when Lucy asks if he's going anywhere nice, he says, "I thought I might go to New York."

Spencer's pretty sure that she knows that something else is going on; she nods carefully and pats his shoulder before going over to the coffee machine and pouring enough coffee for all three of them.

He's not sure that what he's got with Lucy and Hanim is friendship, exactly, but it's the closest he's let anyone get since he left Ryan and Brendon and Jon behind. It's kind of scary, letting anyone get close to him, but it's also kind of nice. Spencer enjoys their company. It takes his mind off the benefit concert.

He's also worried about playing again. It's been over a year since he picked up a pair of drumsticks and the last thing he wants is to get to New York and have everyone see him screw up. He doesn't want to draw any more attention to himself than he's already prepared for. So, he goes through the phone book and finds a music studio with practice space for rent, and calls up to see if they've got a drum kit he can use.

They do, and he books the practice space for four sessions that first week, coming in early in the morning before work. At first it's really fucking weird because somewhere under the last however-many stagnant months, the muscle memory is still there, itching beneath his skin. He still feels the rhythm like a pulse, somewhere underneath his heartbeat, but he's out of condition and it's been too long since he last played. He para-diddles and para-diddle-diddles for most of the first half hour, sweat running down his back and across his forehead and staining his shirt under his arms. The second time, he takes his iPod and plays along to old Weezer songs and Smashing Pumpkin beats and he knows he's avoiding, he _knows_ it, but he got rid of the Panic! album a long time ago and he's not sure that he's ready to listen to it through again.

He knows he has to – he's going to be _playing_ it in a few weeks time – but he keeps pussying out at the last minute, walking past the door of the music store instead of going inside and buying another copy. In the end, it's Tina who drives him to it, saying _you going to introduce me to Pete Wentz anytime soon, James?_ – and he realizes that he needs to do this, _needs_ to, or else he's going to come off looking like an idiot.

He buys the CD from iTunes one day after work, setting up his laptop to download it and sync his iPod. Afterwards, rather than listening, he carefully closes the lid of his laptop and goes into the kitchen. He makes spaghetti and eats leaning over the counter by the microwave, turning the pages of one of Jodie's magazines and reading articles with titles like _how to keep your man from leaving_. Spencer thinks, _huh_, and flicks over. He reads the book and movie reviews instead, and wonders if everyone else in the whole world deals with their life falling apart better than he's been doing.

He does the dishes and wipes down the counters and makes himself lunch to take to work the next day. Afterwards, when he's cleaned out Missy's bowl and changed her litter tray and washed the glasses he found on the coffee table in the living room, he goes back into his room and opens up his laptop again.

There's a new email from Pete, with details of his flight to New York and his hotel reservation. _Same hotel as the others_, Pete has written, _but your down the hall. Figured youd want ur space. Think its amazing ur doin this. Click the link, the benefits gonna be wicked. We're gonna help a lot of kids_.

There isn't any blur between his two worlds, no hazy shift between one and the other. There's a gap the size of the Nevada desert between his life in Seattle and Panic!, and Spencer isn't sure he wants to jump. He nods, carefully, his fingers hovering over the keys. He takes a deep breath and replies to say _thanks_. He puts his iPod into his backpack to take with him to work in the morning, and he logs out of his email and watches porn for a while. Spencer tells himself that the guy on his knees doesn't look anything like Brendon.

\--

Spencer's flight out to New York leaves four days before the show. He's nervous as hell and it's not just because he's going to be seeing Ryan and Brendon and Pete and Jon again, but also because it's _him_. Spencer hasn't trusted himself for a long time, and it's difficult for him to let go. He's going to be playing again, going to be doing this thing that he loves, in front of people, on stage with Brendon and Ryan and then in a few days time, he's going to have to turn around again and come back home to Seattle and try and pick up where he left off.

He doesn't know whether he's going to be able to.

Pete leaves him a voicemail to say that there'll be a car to pick him up at the airport in New York. Spencer texts him a _thanks_, and takes his case downstairs and waits on the front steps of his apartment building for the cab.

The rest of his journey is uneventful. He gets a window seat so he spends most of the flight staring out of the window and trying to read Harry Potter. He's on the fifth book now and he's kind of drifting in and out of it. The woman in the seat next to him tells him that she prefers the movies. Spencer nods and makes a big deal about putting his earbuds in. He doesn't switch on his iPod.

When they get in to New York it takes ages for his luggage to arrive on the conveyor belt at baggage claim; Spencer leaves his earbuds in and his iPod off and he stands to one side, staring at the wall and tapping his foot awkwardly to a staccato rhythm in his head. His hands don't shake.

\--

The sign the driver's holding up says SPENCER JAMES SMITH in thick black caps.

Spencer tries to catch his breath.

\--

He unpacks carefully, hanging up his shirts and his pants in the closet. He leaves the TV on low; he flicks between old episodes of _Friends_ and a documentary about polar bears as he bundles his socks into one drawer and folds his underwear into the drawer below. He leaves Harry Potter on the nightstand and unpacks his toiletries onto the shelf in the bathroom.

Later on, he thinks, he'll boot up his laptop and jerk off for a bit.

He doesn't know if he should be doing anything or if he should be anywhere in particular or even if he has to stay in the hotel. He can't keep still; being this close to Ryan and Jon and Brendon is weird. The proximity makes him edgy and he doesn't know what to think or how to feel. He shrugs on his jacket and decides to go out and get himself some food, try and get some perspective.

\--

Spencer eats ramen in a tiny restaurant about five blocks over from the hotel. He switches his cellphone off and stays longer than he should do, having a couple of beers and reading his book. He feels - kind of independent. It's sort of nice.

\--

When he gets back to the hotel there's a message pushed up under his door. It's from Zack, and Spencer calls him on the hotel phone to let him know that he's back.

Zack says, "I'm coming by," and hangs up.

Spencer swallows down his frustration and sits down on the edge of his bed, arms folded so he can't tap his fingers in a rhythm he's trying not to think about.

He doesn't have to wait long for Zack's knock.

"Hey," he says, for wont of something better to say.

Zack nods back. "Spencer Smith," he says, and claps Spencer on the shoulder as he walks by. Zack's hardly the most expressive man Spencer's ever met, but his thumb rubs against Spencer's shirt for a moment too long.

Spencer nods again, awkwardly. Zack has always known exactly what was going on, even when he's professed not to.

"Good to see you, man," Zack tells him, sitting down in the chair by the TV.

"Yeah," Spencer says, because Zack was one of those people who went from being around him every day to suddenly _not_ being.

Zack goes through the timings and the security detail with him and Spencer suddenly feels closed-in and trapped. He stands up and opens the window. After a moment, after he's caught his breath, he sits back down again and nods, listening attentively as Zack details how the next few days are going to go. Spencer thinks that it's all gotten more regimented since the last time he did this, but it might be that he's forgotten. He doesn't know, and can't ask.

Spencer agrees to be in the lobby in the morning at nine to go over to the studio with the others. After Zack leaves, he hangs a _do not disturb_ sign on his door and locks it carefully.

He stays up late and taps rhythms out on the comforter and switches his cellphone off and on again. He sends a message to his mom (_got here safe, love you_) and hides his phone under his pillow. He watches a DVD on his laptop as he waits for the sleeping pill to kick in and he purposefully ignores the two times there's a knock at his door.

\--

Spencer plans to be late down to the lobby in the morning.

He's learned over the years that Brendon's hardly ever on time, and Spencer thinks he'd rather be a few minutes late than have to make awkward conversation with Jon or Ryan while they all wait for Brendon to come down. Instead, he waits in his room, pacing the floor and checking through his backpack over and over as he watches the clock tick past the hour.

At five past, he heads down, avoiding the elevator and taking the stairs. He doesn't want to risk being trapped in an elevator with anyone he knows, even if only for a minute. He's forgotten to ask Pete if anyone else he might know is staying in the hotel.

In the lobby, he raises a hand in awkward greeting to Jon and Zack. They're sprawled across the couches by the front desk; Ryan's facing the wall, talking on his cellphone. Brendon's there too, sitting down with his coat wrapped around him. He doesn't look up as Spencer arrives and Spencer's suddenly overwhelmed by how tired and gaunt he's looking.

Spencer swallows and lets Jon clap him on the back; he makes conversation with Zack about breakfast as they wait for Ryan to finish his phone call and then they head out to the waiting car. Zack pats him on the shoulder as he climbs in.

\--

No one talks on the way to the practice space, and Spencer stares out of the window as the streets pass them by. He watches Brendon in the reflection on the glass; he's nervous and shaking and his leg won't stop jiggling. In the end, Jon leans over and puts his hand on Brendon's knee. Brendon doesn't shrug it off, but it doesn't stop him moving either.

Spencer thinks that he should never have left Seattle.

\--

Rehearsal starts badly. Everyone is nervous and Spencer's hands won't work properly. He's anxious about playing in front of the others and his sticks keep slipping in his grip. Ryan's monosyllabic and unsure and Jon's knuckles are white as he tunes his guitar. Brendon's jittery, talking nineteen to the dozen and trying to smile whenever his gaze slides past Spencer's line of sight. It looks like it might hurt.

It gets worse.

Brendon's not concentrating – he's outside of the count and forgetting the words, knocking the microphone stand over and spilling Red Bull across the floor.

Ryan's got no patience and Spencer's wrists hurt.

It's all wrong.

\--

It just doesn't get any better the more they try. By late morning, Brendon's still trying too hard and Ryan's taken to rolling his eyes and kicking at his guitar case. Spencer's so caught up with not screwing up that he's barely listening to anyone else; he's just about ready to get on a plane back to Seattle and let Panic! get a session drummer back in for their set. He's pretty sure he's not ready for this.

They're halfway through _Camisado_ when Jon just stops playing. "We need a break," he says, pulling off his guitar. "Fifteen minutes." He nods at Spencer, beckoning him over.

Spencer swallows and follows Jon out into the hallway.

Jon's leaning against the wall with his head tipped back. "You okay?" he asks, turning so he can smile tiredly at Spencer.

Spencer sighs. "Yeah," he says, and he shrugs. "Getting there." He clears his throat. It had been Jon who'd sent Spencer the rest of his stuff after he'd quit the band and gone back to Las Vegas. Jon had packaged it all up and shipped it over to Spencer's parents' house, so that Spencer could ignore the boxes and have his dad put them in the attic. Spencer had read the letter that Jon had sent along with the boxes, but he hadn't ever replied. He hadn't even said thank you. He'd always felt bad about that.

"It's going to be okay," Jon tells him, touching at his shoulder. "You're doing just fine. We're all a bit freaked out but we'll get it. The show'll be good."

Spencer nods tightly, swallowing. "I hope so," he says.

"It fucking won't," Ryan says, barging out of the practice room and right into the middle of their conversation, "Brendon's being a fucking spastic."

Spencer thinks, _I'm done making Brendon pay_, and glances across the studio to where Brendon's kneeling over his guitar case. Brendon's shoulders tighten, almost imperceptibly, and Spencer's been away a long time but it seems he hasn't forgotten how to notice that kind of thing, regardless of how much he's wanted to.

He's so skinny, Spencer thinks. Skinny and tiny and closed-off and _scared_. Spencer had thought that he'd still want to hate Brendon and he'd thought that he'd still want him to be hurting over what he did with Haley, but looking across the room at him now, crouched over his guitar case and trembling, Spencer thinks that maybe his mom was right. Maybe it is time they figured out a way to stop everybody hurting.

Spencer goes into the bathroom down the hall and washes his hands and face. He stares at himself in the mirror until his face is nothing but a hazy collection of circles and shapes and a blur of colors.

\--

On the way back into the practice room, he nods at Brendon.

Brendon pauses, biting his lip. He nods back.

\--

They break early for lunch.

Spencer cracks his knuckles, rubbing at his sore palms. He's sticky and sweaty and tired. He leaves his sticks on his stool and ignores Ryan and Jon, going over to where Brendon's fiddling with his guitar, kneeling by his case. "We should get some food," Spencer says, and he barely recognizes his own voice. The words stick in his throat.

Brendon's startled. "Me?" he asks. His t-shirt is damp and sticking awkwardly to his back. In the old days, Spencer would have leaned over and straightened it for him, running his fingertips over the pale skin in the hollow of Brendon's back.

Spencer clenches his fist and stuffs it into the pocket of his jeans. "Yeah," he says. "Come on."

He doesn't make eye contact with either Jon or Ryan.

"How long are you going to be?" Ryan calls after them.

"As long as it fucking takes," Spencer shouts back as they walk down the hallway.

Brendon doesn't lift his gaze from the floor.

\--

They go to a diner down the street and wait for a table. Spencer ends up ordering for them both because Brendon's not saying anything, and fuck, this is all wrong. Brendon's _wrong_, he's not like this. His head's bowed and he's staring down at the table top. Spencer's having trouble recognizing him; even back in the practice rooms when Brendon was knocking stuff over and banging into things and talking too fast and laughing too loudly, that was behavior that Spencer was at least on familiar terms with.

Spencer swallows loudly and orders them a sandwich and a slice of pie each with glasses of milk.

Brendon's eerily still.

"How's your family?" Spencer asks, after a moment. It wasn't what he'd intended to talk about; he'd vaguely thought about some sort of motivational pep talk for them both about trying to work together for the sake of the benefit charity, but it seems wrong, somehow.

After a moment, Brendon stands up, and Spencer thinks that he's going to walk out and leave Spencer sitting there by himself. He doesn't, though, he just pulls his wallet out of his back pocket and smoothes out a crumpled photo from in between a small wad of low notes. He's had to cut the top and bottom off the photograph so it would fit inside. Brendon slides the photo across the table, careful not to touch Spencer. His fingertips push at the top of the photo, nudging it closer.

Spencer looks down and sees a photo of Brendon's family, taken down the length of a table at a celebration. Spencer can't figure out the occasion, but it's Brendon's brothers and sisters for sure. There's something about the curve of the jaw, the color of their eyes, the flick of their hair that would mean Spencer could pick out Brendon's siblings and parents even if he hadn't seen them all before. There are partners too, husbands and wives and children, all crowded around the table.

Spencer sometimes forgets that Brendon comes from a large family. "Where are you?" he asks, pointing at the photograph.

"Taking the picture," Brendon says, his fingers touching at the top corner of the photo.

Spencer's thumb grazes over the shot of Brendon's mom, smiling awkwardly down the table towards Brendon and the camera. "They have these things called self timers," he says, with an attempt at a smile.

"Maybe next time," Brendon says, and he takes the photograph back, sliding it back into the wallet. There's another picture in there, something else hidden in between receipts and notes, a flash of color. Brendon doesn't volunteer it and Spencer doesn't ask. He thinks it might be of them, the two of them together. His chest constricts, and for a moment it's hard to breathe.

"How are things, with them?" Spencer asks, tightly. It's like Ryan's dad's funeral. Brendon's relationship with his family, his estrangement, it's outside of the reason Spencer fell out with him. Like the funeral, he feels like he should have been there for him.

"Better," Brendon says. "We try. They've been good to me, since-" he stops, and plays with his sandwich, pulling off the crusts.

Spencer wants to say something – _something_ – but he doesn't. He can't. He takes a bite of his sandwich. A gulp of milk. He isn't hungry.

"They-" Brendon stops. "They don't think the same as me but they've tried. Forgiveness and prayer-" he stops again. "I'm not like them," he says, and Spencer's heard this before, an echo of the last time he was with Brendon. "I'm not like them and I don't want to be, but they're my family and I love them." He's wound tighter than he used to be, presenting an impenetrable shield wall of protection between his family and the outside world.

Spencer nods an agreement and takes another sip of milk through his straw.

\--

"Are you okay with me being here?" Spencer asks later. They've finished their sandwiches and are waiting on their pie. The diner's crowded and the wait staff are all busy.

Brendon looks up quickly and frowns. "Shouldn't I be asking you that?"

Spencer shrugs. "I left," he says. "You didn't."

Brendon looks back down at the table. "I tried to," he says, softly. "I tried to, so that you could come back."

Spencer looks up sharply. "What?" he asks.

"You shouldn't have had to leave," Brendon says. "I was the one that screwed up. I ruined everything, it should have been me that left."

"No-" Spencer says, without even having to stop and think about it. "No." All these months he's been living off in Seattle, trying to forget that his band existed, trying to get on with his life without the people he loved most in it, all that time he'd never once thought that Brendon should have left instead of him. Not once. He cocks his head to one side. "You screwed up," he says quietly. "I mean, you _really_ screwed up. But-" he stops, fiddling with his napkin. He doesn't know what to say.

"I tried to leave," Brendon says again. "I quit, but Ryan said if I quit then there wouldn't be a band for you to come back to." He looks down. "I wanted there to be something you could come back to. If you wanted."

Spencer nods carefully. "Okay," he says, and tries to ignore the way his heart is beating in his chest, the way he wants to lean across the table and take Brendon's hand in his. The way he wants to be able to forgive. He doesn't know if he can. "Do you think," he says finally. He's ripped his napkin into pieces. Brendon's done the same. "Do you think we can do this? Rehearse together? Perform together? One last time?"

"One last time," Brendon echoes. He sounds sad. "You won't come back again?"

Spencer shrugs awkwardly. "I have a job," he says, and he thinks of Missy. "And a cat."

"Jon has cats," Brendon tells him. "This could be your job."

It would be a lie if Spencer said he hadn't at least thought about it, about coming back and being the drummer in Panic! again. He shakes his head. "I can't," he says, and he doesn't think he means drum for Panic! again. "I just, I can't think about that. Not right now."

Brendon nods. He stirs the remainder of his glass of milk with the end of his straw. "I never meant to hurt you, you know," he says finally. "I know that I did. I know that I ruined everything. I'd never do anything to deliberately hurt you, Spence. I mean-" he stops, tailing off. He concentrates on his milk.

Spencer knows that it shouldn't make a difference, that whatever the intention, he still ended up hurt and alone. It does, though, somehow. "I know," he says, softly. He ducks his head and waits for their pie to arrive.

\--

"Do you-" Brendon stops pushing the last of his pie around the bottom of his dish. He hasn't looked at Spencer once in the last five minutes. "Do you think that, well."

Spencer thinks that his entire band is made up of the most inarticulate people in the world. "What?"

"Like, not now." Brendon swallows, and his cheeks are pinking. "I know, not _now_. But. Do you think you could ever forgive me?"

Spencer's staring at Brendon's hands; they're trembling.

"Like, sometime. In the future." Brendon still won't look at him, "I just. Well. I still love you." he stops. "Do you think you could ever, maybe, love me again?"

Spencer can't breathe. He stares down at the remains of his pie. "No," he says, after a moment. It should have eased the pressure in his chest, but it hasn't. It doesn't. It _hurts_.

Brendon doesn't even manage an _oh_, just an exhale of breath that might have been one once.

Spencer watches as Brendon struggles to keep it together. It should have been satisfying: it wasn't. It just hurt. "Brendon," he manages, his chest tight. He reaches across the table, but he stops before he touches Brendon's hand. "I didn't mean that," he says. He taps his fingers on the tabletop, his fingertips a hair breadth from Brendon's. "I just-" He's as inarticulate as the rest of his band; he wonders why he never noticed. "Brendon, it's just. I don't know if I want to. I think I could. I could love you again, maybe. Sometime. I just, I don't know."

Brendon's finger moves, just a single tap on the table top. Spencer nods.

They sit in silence for the last few minutes of their meal.

\--

Practice goes better in the afternoon.

\--

They rehearse for the next two days, and it's hard. Spencer gets back to the hotel at the end of each day and he's too tired to do anything other than flop down on his bed and watch the television. He sits on his bed and thinks about coming back to the band full time, about what that would mean for him and Brendon. About his friendship with Ryan, about Jon and Pete and his apartment in Seattle. If Jodie would let him take Missy, if he could make a home for her. He wishes the answers were easy.

\--

When the knock on the door comes, it's late. It's the night before the benefit concert and Spencer's pretty sure he's forgotten to put the _do not disturb_ sign outside. He runs his fingers through his hair and answers the door.

It's Jon, and he smiles. "I've found the fire escape that goes up to the roof," he tells Spencer. "Want to grab a jacket and come see?"

Spencer nods. "Okay," he says, and he puts on his shoes and picks up his coat.

\--

They jam one of Jon's flip-flops in the doorway to stop the fire door from closing and locking them both out. They sit on the wall by the roof garden and the gazebo and stare up at the sky; Jon offers him a cigarette and Spencer takes it, even though he hasn't smoked for over a year.

He inhales slowly. He and Jon used to do this a lot, back when Jon had just started filling in for Brent. They used to hang out after shows and smoke on hotel balconies, or leaning up against the side of the bus in parking lots.

He'd missed Jon, after.

"Are you thinking about it?" Jon asks, all of a sudden. "Brendon says he spoke to you about coming back to the band."

"Sort of," Spencer says. He tips his head back and looks up into the dark. "Maybe," he says, although that's not what he meant to say, not even close. "Maybe."

"They want you to," Jon tells him, around his cigarette. "I want you to."

"Yeah," Spencer says, noncommittally. Jon doesn't say anything else, and Spencer thinks about everything he's worked for over the last year, the anonymity and the freedom of seclusion. About whether it's worth anything. About whether being alone is actually any better.

"Brendon loves you, you know," Jon says, after a while.

Spencer's cigarette has burned all the way down, ash spilling across his jeans. He stubs it out against the wall by his hand. "Yeah," he says. "He told me. When he came to see me in Seattle." He doesn't mention the time in the diner.

"And?"

"I didn't believe him."

"You should," Jon says.

There's a long couple of minutes when neither of them say anything and Spencer stares up at the stars and thinks about his mom in Las Vegas, standing out on the back stoop and smoking cigarette after cigarette. "He told me again," Spencer says finally, "a couple of days ago."

"Oh," Jon says. "Well. He does."

Spencer shifts so he's laying along the top of the wall. He knows. He closes his eyes. It doesn't make any of this hurt any less. "I know," he says. "I know."

Jon lights up another cigarette. He offers one to Spencer, but Spencer shakes his head.

"Is he-" Spencer says, haltingly, after a minute. "He's too thin, Jon. Really fucking thin. He's- Is he looking after himself?"

Jon watches him thoughtfully. "He's getting by," he says, eventually. "He's getting there. He's been through a lot. I mean, I know you have too. But so has he. It's been hard on him. It was tough on us all there for a while."

Spencer nods, and covers his eyes with his arm. He hates seeing Brendon like this, hollow-eyed and skinny and with his clothes hanging off him. Frightened.

"You okay?" Jon asks, after a while.

"Yeah," Spencer says. He sits up, and rubs at his face with his palm. "I hate seeing him like this," he admits. "It hurts."

Jon sighs, and taps his cigarette against the brick, inhaling sharply. "Do you – do you still love him? Do you love him back? Because, Spencer, jeez-"

"I can remember what it felt like to be in love with him," Spencer says, cutting Jon off. He wonders why he's telling Jon this. He hasn't even told himself. "I remember what it felt like- before." He looks at Jon, shadowed in the darkness. "That isn't enough," he says. It isn't, he thinks.

Jon looks at him. "No," he says doubtfully. "But do you want it to be?"

"God," Spencer says, and his voice cracks, he can't help it. "So much," he says. "So much. I want it all," he says, and it's like he can't stop himself, he can't take the words back, "I want Ryan back, I want Brendon to be my fucking boyfriend again, I want Brent to still want us like we wanted him. I want my band back, I want you to be our bassist. I want all of this not to have happened. See?" he shakes his head. "I can't have everything I want. It isn't enough to just want-" he stops, puts his face in his hands again, tries to take a deep breath. "Sorry," he says. "Sorry, sorry."

Jon takes a long drag on his cigarette. The smell reminds Spencer of his mom.

"It's all so fucked up," Spencer says, tightly. He rubs at his eyes; he's tired and anxious about tomorrow and he can't get Brendon out of his head.

"I just can't figure it out," Spencer says, after a while. His body temperature has dropped; he wraps his arms around himself to try and stop himself from shivering.

"What?" Jon asks. He yawns, wide and loud.

"I just don't get it. If Brendon loved me all this time, how come he never bothered trying to find me, or apologize or whatever?" Spencer picks at the skin round his thumb nail. His palms are blistered from drumming so much. He doesn't want to sound pitiful but he just can't help it. "How come he just let me go?"

Jon looks at him like he's crazy. "Spencer, are you kidding me?"

"No," Spencer says, "I'm not." He's spent a whole year waiting for Brendon to turn up just so he could tell him that he didn't need him around. Now he had the opportunity, he kind of didn't want that at all.

Jon's fingers curl around his unlit cigarette. "Spence, he called you all the time until you had your number disconnected. He wrote you, like, a million emails. He went to your house and one of your sisters sent him away."

Spencer bites his lip. "Emails?" he says, and he tries but he can't hide the wobble to his voice. He hasn't checked his old email account since he quit the band. "What?"

"Shit," Jon says, and his eyes are wide. "Shit."

"I trashed my cell," Spencer says, slowly. "I never got them. I didn't know my sisters knew. I didn't think-" His hands shake. He should have known Brendon wouldn't just give up; he doesn't know why he hadn't realized sooner. He thinks that maybe he just didn't want to. "I didn't think," he says again. He looks down at his hands.

Jon watches him for a long time, until Spencer's too cold to stay outside and he heads back down to his room and stares at the wall until his sleeping pill kicks in.

\--

Brendon wakes Spencer up early in the morning, knocking on his door until Spencer crawls out of bed and lets him in.

"I'm sorry," Brendon says, straight away. "I didn't know, I'm really sorry."

For a second, Spencer's heart stops beating. He tries to shake the taste of the sleeping pill away. "What?" he says, barely breathing.

Brendon pushes a poster at him. At the bottom, under Panic!'s name, it says, _for one night only, Spencer Smith on drums_. The news that Spencer is playing has leaked.

"Oh," Spencer says, and it's a _relief_. It's a relief that it's not something worse. "Oh." He might be nervous as hell, but he's still astute – he knows a good marketing plan when he sees one. He blames Pete, or maybe Ryan, because Ryan's got a good business head on him when it comes to things like this, but Brendon's really mad. Spencer sits down on the end of his bed, and he realizes that he's in his sleep clothes, sagging sweatpants and a faded old t-shirt.

Brendon's scruffy too, in old jeans with a hole in the knee and an equally faded Journey t-shirt. He crosses his arms, biting his lip. "I don't know whether we can do anything about it now," he says. "I haven't been online, but some of the message boards have probably picked it up by now. I've called Pete but he's not up yet, or whatever, but maybe there's something-"

"It's okay," Spencer tells him, putting out his hand and stilling Brendon with a touch to his wrist. It's the first time Spencer's touched Brendon in well over a year. He curls his hand around Brendon's wrist, unable to do anything else. "It's okay. I'm okay."

He doesn't let go, and Brendon goes perfectly still. Spencer brushes his thumb over the inside of Brendon's wrist.

Brendon makes a soft sound and pulls away.

Spencer blinks and clears his throat.

"I should, um," Brendon says quickly, pointing at the door. "Yeah."

He rushes out of the door, leaving the poster behind him in his haste, and Spencer's left staring down at it. _Panic! at the Disco: for one night only, Spencer Smith on drums_.

He thinks, _Panic! at the Disco: Spencer Smith, drummer_. He thinks.

\--

Ryan comes by after lunch. He sits on Spencer's bed and pulls at the thread on the comforter. "I'm glad you decided to come," he says finally.

Spencer sits down in the seat by the TV. "Yeah," he says. "Thanks for asking me." He means it.

Ryan sighs. "Who else would we ask? You're our drummer, Spence."

"_Ex_-drummer."

"Drummer." Ryan shrugs his shoulders. "You're always going to be our drummer, Spence."

"Yeah," Spencer says, and he leans back in the chair, looking up at the ceiling. "Maybe." Neither of them say anything. "You okay?" he asks, finally, because Ryan looks tired.

"I sold my dad's house," Ryan tells him.

"And?" Spencer asks. He props his feet up on the end of the bed and tries to figure out whether this is weird, or just Ryan. He's inclined to think it's both. Their conversations always could be fragmentary.

Ryan shrugs again, and lies down on Spencer's pillows, rolling onto his side. "Okay, I guess. We got on better before he died."

Spencer nods. "That's good."

"Yeah. I'll tell you about it sometime. If you want."

"Yeah," Spencer says, carefully. He doesn't think he's ever going to forgive himself for missing Ryan's dad's funeral. "I should have been at the funeral," he says, awkwardly. "I'm sorry I wasn't."

"It's okay," Ryan says, after a while. He looks down at his hands. "I'm glad you're here now, though."

"Me too," Spencer says. There's so much they're not saying. He swallows, loudly, and rubs his palms against his jeans.

"Good," Ryan says, finally. "You figured out what you're going to wear tonight?"

"Pretty much," Spencer says. The outfit's hung up on the closet door. "There," he says, pointing. It's just jeans and a black shirt.

"Cool," Ryan says, after a beat, sitting back against the pillows. "How are you holding up?" he asks awkwardly.

Spencer shrugs. "Scared," he says finally. "It's been a while."

"We'll be good," Ryan tells him. "You'll be good."

"Yeah," Spencer says, "I hope so." He swallows again, his mouth dry. "You want to watch some TV, or something?"

"Sure," Ryan says, nodding. "I'd like that."

They watch the end of Superman II until Ryan stretches and says he'd better go take a shower before they have to leave for the venue.

Spencer moves and lies on his bed for a bit after Ryan leaves. The pillows smell faintly of him.

\--

Spencer catches Brendon's wrist before they're due to leave for the concert. "Maybe we could, I don't know, maybe talk later on?"

Brendon nods. "Yeah," he says. "That would be good."

\--

Spencer spends the half hour before they're due on stage in the bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror. He concentrates on breathing, steadying his panic with a constant 4/4 beat of his fingers against the porcelain. Jon knocks, saying, "You okay in there, dude?" as he taps on the door.

Spencer swallows and nods at himself in the mirror, then says, "I'm okay." His voice is taut. "I just need to be on my own for a bit."

Later on, Ryan knocks. "Five minutes," he says. "You need anything?"

Spencer can't swallow, his mouth is so dry. "Something to drink," he says, shortly, and sits against the wall by the door so he can stick a hand out and take the bottle when Ryan knocks again. Spencer doesn't bother locking the door again and Ryan comes in, sitting down on the floor by Spencer's feet. His knee knocks against Spencer's, and Spencer can't help but think about all those years of friendship that just disappeared overnight. The gap that Spencer couldn't even try to fill. His ankle bumps Ryan's.

"I missed you," Spencer says, softly. "I missed you so much."

Ryan nods fiercely. "You're my best friend, Spencer," he tells him, leaning forward and wrapping his arm awkwardly around Spencer's knee. "And you are going to be great out there tonight."

"You got everything?" Jon asks, leaning against the door jamb.

"I'm good," Spencer nods. He's got his sticks in his hand. "Where's Brendon?"

Brendon's perched on the end of the couch, staring down at his feet. He's not looking at any of them, and his shoulders are hunched. He's toeing at the carpet with his scuffed converse.

Spencer watches him for a long moment. "Give us a minute, okay, guys?" he says, and Jon eyes him carefully.

"Thirty seconds," Zack says, from the doorway, tapping his wrist. "That's all you've got."

Spencer waits until the door has closed behind Ryan and Zack and Jon. Brendon's watching him, his hands in his pockets, biting his lip.

"You think I'm going to be okay out there tonight?" Spencer asks, after a moment. He's conscious of the time.

Brendon huffs a laugh. "You're going to be awesome, Spence."

"Yeah?" Spencer puts his hands in his pockets. They're a way away from the stage but he can still hear the dull roar of the crowd. "You think?"

Brendon nods. "Sure you are. You're a pretty amazing guy."

"I'm thinking of maybe coming back," Spencer tells him. He shrugs his shoulders. "I think I want to be in the band again."

"Yeah?" Brendon's face lights up. Spencer watches him stand up, stepping towards Spencer before some invisible string jerks him back. He's kind of smiling, though, through the awkwardness, and Spencer feels the flutter in his stomach, the pull of something raw in his chest.

"Yeah," Spencer says, and he's sort of trying to smile back. "We'll see, okay? How it goes tonight."

Brendon bites his lip; his eyes are shining.

The door opens and Zack waves them out. "Come on, guys. Time to dance."

Spencer follows them down the hallway towards the stage, and tries not to throw up.

\--

Spencer barely remembers their set. The roar of the crowd, the set list. He has no idea. He holds his sticks up when Jon introduces him, when Ryan and Brendon smile back at him and it's like there's something unwinding in his chest, something tight and sharp softening as they grin. The crowd seem more than happy to see him, judging by the rise in volume. Spencer bites his lip and grins as he plays them into the next song.

It's over before he knows it, and he's throwing his drumsticks into the crowd, just like he's done a hundred times before. His skin is bathed in sweat, his shirt sticking to him; he wipes at his forehead with his sleeve and follows Ryan off stage. Adrenaline courses through him; he feels amazing.

Jon slings an arm round his shoulder and presses a wet kiss to his forehead. Zack claps him on the back and when they get back to their dressing room, Ryan tugs him into an awkward hug. Spencer can barely breathe.

Brendon busies himself with his stuff, shoveling his belongings into his backpack. From behind, Spencer can see how skinny he is, the way his shirt's plastered to him, drenched in sweat. His hair sticks to his forehead and the back of his neck.

Spencer swallows and takes the first shower. His chest sort of hurts.

\--

Zack has the car drop Spencer at the hotel on the way to the gala dinner and afterparty; Jon leans over and pulls him into a hug as the car stops. "You did great," he tells him, and Spencer can't help but hug back.

Ryan just nudges him with his foot. "You sure you won't come with us?"

Spencer nods. "Yeah," he says. "But, thanks."

"We should get breakfast," Ryan says, awkwardly. "Before you fly out, I mean."

"Yeah." His flight is after lunch. He doesn't know when the others are leaving, or even where they're leaving to. He hasn't asked. "That'd be good. I'd like that."

"I'll call you," Ryan tells him. "In the morning."

"Yeah," Spencer nods. "Okay."

Zack's got the door open, and Spencer's half out, one foot on the sidewalk when Brendon catches his arm. "Do you-" he stops. "Would you mind? If I didn't go either? We could, um. Talk. Like you said."

Spencer watches him for a beat. "Okay," he says. He doesn't look at the others.

\--

They go up to the roof, and Brendon blocks the fire door open with his jacket.

"You'll get cold," Spencer tells him, as Brendon tugs his jacket off and folds it into four, jamming it into the space between the door and the frame.

Brendon shrugs, wrapping his arms around himself and bouncing on the balls of his feet. "I'll be fine," he says. He's already shivering, although Spencer thinks that that could just be the tail end of the adrenaline.

"You should look after yourself better," Spencer points out, taking his jacket off and handing it to Brendon. "You're too thin."

"Now you'll be cold," Brendon says, not meeting Spencer's eyes. He takes the jacket though, takes it and hugs it to his chest.

Spencer's heart clenches. "I've got my sweater," he says, shaking his head awkwardly and trying not to look. "You've just got your t-shirt."

"Yeah."

Spencer waits as Brendon pulls on Spencer's coat. It's too big for him, and the shoulder seams hang way down Brendon's arms. "We should sit somewhere out of the wind," he tells him, and tries not to notice the way Brendon's huddling inside Spencer's coat.

They sit with their backs up against the wall of the roof garden. Spencer draws his knees up to his chest and Brendon follows suit.

Neither of them says anything.

"I didn't know you ever tried to contact me," Spencer says, finally. "You know, before. When I was gone."

Brendon looks at him. "I did," he says.

"I know," Spencer says. "Jon told me."

"I did," Brendon says again. He's picking at the knee of his jeans.

Spencer nods awkwardly. He sort of wishes he'd known that. Maybe it wouldn't have changed anything; maybe it would have still meant a year of him feeling angry and heartbroken and lost and forgotten. But still. He would have known. It would have made a difference to him.

"You thought I just. Let you go?"

Spencer shrugs. "I guess."

"I didn't," Brendon tells him. "I thought you just didn't want to talk to me."

"I didn't," Spencer says. It's the truth, but he sees Brendon flinch, and it hurts. His throat feels raw. "Why'd you do it, Brendon?"

Brendon doesn't ask _what_. He looks sad. "I fucked up," he says. "We were just. We – me and Haley - were both so miserable," he went on, "and I thought being with someone who loved you just as much as I did would be better than being by myself."

"That's stupid," Spencer manages. He feels like he's been kicked in the chest.

Brendon nods, and looks down at his feet. "I know," he says. "Don't think that I don't know that."

"When?" Spencer asks.

Brendon bites at his lip. "When she flew out to try and get you back."

Spencer remembers that. He remembers Haley turning up backstage in a really pretty dress with her hair all up. He remembers taking her across town to a diner and having to tell her that he didn't want to get back with her, that he just didn't love her like that. That he loved someone else, and how it wasn't her fault and he was sorry. Watching her break apart in front of him all over again had hurt more than he could have imagined. He'd still loved her, just not in the way she'd needed him to. "We were- we were together then," Spencer says. _You were mine_, he thinks. "You and me. We were together."

"I thought we weren't."

Spencer shakes his head. "Why'd you think that? We were. We shared a bunk, Brendon. Hotel rooms, even."

"I was waiting for you," Brendon tells him, haltingly. "Back at the hotel. You remember?"

Spencer shrugs. "I guess."

"We fought," Brendon says. He doesn't look at Spencer.

"You don't sleep with someone else just because we were in a fight, Brendon." Spencer rubs at his eyes. He doesn't understand. He doesn't get what drove Brendon to sleep with Spencer's ex-girlfriend.

"You didn't come back."

Spencer swallows. "I passed out on the couch in the bus," he said. He'd been pretty out of it that night, they all had. "I didn't mean to not come back."

"I know," Brendon says. "But I thought you did. I thought it was on purpose. I thought you were breaking up with me."

"I wasn't," Spencer says, stupidly. "I was drunk. I fell asleep."

"I was drunk too," Brendon says. "I was drunk, and I was upset and I was stupid. I made a mistake."

"Yeah," Spencer says, dazedly.

"I fucked up," Brendon tells him, playing with the toe of his converse. "I fucked up. I just, I always figured you were going to go back to Haley. I-" he stops.

"What-" Spencer's eyes widen. "Why would you even think that?"

Brendon shrugs miserably. "I don't know. I just always thought that. We argued a lot. We weren't together. Not properly. It wasn't official. I thought-"

"I loved you," Spencer says, before he can stop himself. "It was just hard, trying to figure all this stuff about me and you out on a fucking _bus_, with Brent fucking off and everything. It didn't mean I didn't want you. That we weren't going to end up-" he stopped, running his fingers through his hair. Spencer had said, _let's take it slow_. He'd said, _let's just take our time, not say we're something before we've figured it out properly_. He wished he hadn't been so cautious, so careful. It might have changed things.

"I know," Brendon says. "Sometimes I think we were all half-crazy, back then."

Spencer rubs his palms together against the cold. "Maybe we were," he says, and he thinks about how long it's taken him to get this near to forgiveness – not just for Brendon, but for Ryan and Brent and the whole fucking world.

"I waited up for you," Brendon says, "at the hotel. You weren't answering your cell so I went downstairs so I'd see you come in."

Spencer doesn't remember. He wouldn't, he thinks, he was passed out on the bus.

"Haley had booked a suite for you both in the hotel," Brendon goes on, hooking his chin over his knees.

Spencer starts. "I didn't know she was staying there."

"She thought you'd go back to her or something. We were both waiting for you."

"I didn't know."

Brendon rubs his cheek against his jeans. "We just. We had more to drink. You didn't come back. I thought that was it, that we were over."

"We weren't," Spencer says, stupidly.

"She was the closest thing to you that I had," Brendon tells him, and his voice catches. "But she wasn't you, and I knew she wasn't." He swallows a sob, and Spencer aches with the stupidity of it all. "I fucked everything up. I hurt everyone, and I'm sorry. I made a really stupid mistake and I feel like I'm never going to be done paying for it."

"_I'm done making him pay_," Spencer murmurs, thinking about Ryan.

"What?"

"Nothing," Spencer says, and leans his head back against the wall. His eyes hurt. _I'm done making him pay_, he thinks, again, and wonders if he is.

Neither of them says anything else and they sit in silence for a few minutes, until Brendon's teeth begin to chatter. Spencer swallows hard and stops himself from reaching out. He's supposed to hate him. He _is_. "We should go inside." Spencer picks awkwardly at his jeans. His fingers are cold.

"I don't want to," Brendon says, huddling round his knees. He sounds desperate. "Please."

"You're cold," Spencer says, and he _hurts_. "You'll freeze to death."

"I don't care," Brendon's shivering. "I don't care. I want to stay here. Where you are."

Spencer sort of wants to cry. "Maybe we could sit inside, instead," he says, because Brendon's shaking now, wrapping his arms around himself and trying to stop his teeth from chattering.

Brendon shakes his head. "You'll go," he says, and Spencer's heart breaks all over again because Brendon's almost crying too, and he hates how much this hurts. "You'll go again. Please. Stay."

"I won't leave," Spencer tells him, because he's starting to shiver too, and he's pretty sure Brendon's turning blue. "Just, let's go inside, okay?"

"No," Brendon starts, but Spencer's cold and he's _tired_ of this. He's tired of the hurt and he's tired of trying to figure out how to be happy again. He's tired of getting it _wrong_. He's just- this has been going on too long. He's tired of hurting. He reaches out and circles his fingers around Brendon's wrist. Spencer can feel the jut of the bones beneath his fingers. He wonders what it will take to make Brendon start looking after himself again.

"Come inside," he says, softly, tugging on Brendon's wrist. "Please."

There are dark shadows under Brendon's eyes.

"Come on," he says, again, and Brendon nods.

\--

They go to Brendon's room.

They stand just inside the door, with Spencer leaning awkwardly against the wall and Brendon staring down at the floor. Spencer's trying to look anywhere but at Brendon. The hotel room is desperately untidy, with Brendon's clothes strewn everywhere, and somehow, that's more revealing than Brendon himself. Brendon has always been messy, but there's a desperation to the way his belongings are slung around the room, an ill-at-ease, tired distraction that Spencer can feel echoing between the two of them.

Brendon's still shivering, clutching his balled-up jacket to his chest. He doesn't make any move towards shrugging off Spencer's coat. If anything, he wraps it tighter around him.

Spencer can't help looking.

"I wish you weren't going," Brendon says, all of a sudden. "I want you to stay."

"I have to," Spencer says. His shoulders hunch. Even if he does come back to drum fulltime for Panic!, even if he does make that decision, he still has to go back to Seattle and finish up. He has responsibilities, a job, belongings. An apartment and library books and a part-share in a cat. He can't just drop everything and turn back the clock and pretend like none of this has happened. "Even if…" he trails off. "I still have to. For now, at least."

Brendon's eyes are bright and he's nodding even before Spencer's finished speaking. "I know," he says, and Spencer can't remember if Brendon was always this nervous, this fragile.

"I-" Spencer starts. He doesn't know what he's doing in Brendon's room. He doesn't know why he followed Brendon in, why he didn't say his goodbyes on the stairwell and go back to his hotel room and lock the door. He can't help but think about where they might be if he hadn't passed out on the bus that night, how everything might have been different. Maybe Brendon wouldn't be standing in front of him, tiny and shivering and scared he was going to lose Spencer all over again.

Spencer had thought that he'd hate Brendon, but when it actually comes down to it, he doesn't. Underneath all the bitterness and the hurt and the regret, he really, really doesn't.

"Brendon," he says, and he doesn't try and hide the desperation in his voice.

Brendon sobs and closes the distance between them, clutching at Spencer's sweater and pressing his mouth to Spencer's. It's untidy, and it's messy, and Brendon's kiss catches the corner of Spencer's mouth. Spencer can't breathe.

They stay there for a moment, motionless, until Brendon tries to step back, pulling away. Then Spencer reaches for him, tangling his fingers in Brendon's hair and moving closer. Brendon's breath hitches as Spencer's thumbs brush against his face, and Spencer's left closing the distance between them and leaning in.

"Brendon," he says again, and kisses him.

It's desperate, and it _hurts_. Spencer feels like his chest is being ripped apart, the bitterness and regret catching in his throat. He pushes at Brendon until they're backed up against the wall, and then Spencer just cups Brendon's jaw in his palm and kisses him again. His tongue slides against Brendon's and they're both struggling to breathe; Spencer can feel Brendon's hitched breath against his mouth. His knee is in between Brendon's thighs even before he's had time to think about it, his fingers shaking as he tugs at the collar of Brendon's shirt.

He doesn't know if this can make up for all those months of being lonely and hurt and lost. He doesn't know if it can make up for everything he'd left behind for so long. He just knows he wants to make it all better, wants to make Brendon better, wants to fix him so that he's not tearing himself apart anymore.

He wants to fix this for Brendon.

The realization hits him, and it hits him hard. He can't catch his breath and he pulls away from the kiss, staring down at Brendon.

His eyes are bright and dark, his mouth red and wet. He's tugging at Spencer's sweater and biting at his lip, and once again, Spencer's taken by how _small_ Brendon seems. "Brendon-" Spencer manages, before he's running his hands down Brendon's chest, feeling for himself how much weight Brendon's lost. "Fuck," he says, roughly, and he leans his forehead against Brendon's, dragging him close.

"Come on," Brendon says, desperately. He's pulling away from Spencer's grasp, pulling Spencer's sweater up. "No, no. come on," he says again. "Please."

Something inside of Spencer just _hurts_. Brendon's so desperate, so pathetically grateful that Spencer's even touching him that it makes Spencer ache. His head's a mess.

"Please," Brendon begs. He ducks his head, shrugging off his jacket (_my jacket_, Spencer thinks, vaguely, and watches it fall to the floor) and his t-shirt. "We – you – can do anything you want to," he says, his voice catching. "Whatever you want."

Spencer could probably count Brendon's ribs just by looking, he's so thin. "You've got to promise me you'll start looking after yourself better," he manages, reaching out a shaky hand and pressing it to Brendon's chest. His thumb strokes at the pale skin underneath Brendon's nipple.

"Anything," Brendon nods furiously, pressing forwards and reaching out for Spencer's sweater. "Whatever you want."

Spencer swallows. He wants Brendon to start looking after himself better. He wants him to stop tearing himself apart; he doesn't know how to say it so that Brendon will listen. He keeps touching at Brendon's nipple. It hardens under his thumb, and Brendon bites his lip, his head tipping back to expose the long, pale expanse of his neck. Spencer can't help but lean in and press his mouth to Brendon's shoulder. He feels Brendon shiver, his pulse quickening beneath Spencer's tongue.

"Just tell me," Brendon manages. "Tell me what to do and I'll do it." He's tugging at Spencer's clothes but Spencer's still mouthing at his neck, his tongue sliding across the underside of Brendon's jaw. He tastes faintly like sweat. His skin's cold.

Spencer can't speak. Instead, he bites at Brendon's shoulder, just enough to redden the skin. Brendon groans, and Spencer moves his attention to Brendon's other nipple, thumb stroking across the nub.

Brendon arches up into his touch.

Spencer's been kidding himself this whole time; he hasn't been in control. Everything he's done, every break he's made and every night he's spent locked in his bedroom with the curtains shut and his cellphone switched off, he's done it all in the name of control, of order. It's been his life on his terms. Every step of the way, he's been in control. Except he never has; all this time he's been running away and hiding, every step further away in the name of independence.

Spencer wonders what the last year has really been like for Brendon, all that guilt and regret. He's not the same person he was when Spencer used to know him before, he's desperate and pleading and scared. He's thinner and smaller than Spencer remembers and he's offering himself to Spencer on a plate.

Spencer wants to say _yes_, wants to take what Brendon's offering, wants to take it and hold on. He settles for pressing his mouth to the underside of Brendon's jaw, feeling Brendon tremble beneath his fingertips. "You want me to tell you what to do?" Spencer asks, softly. His palm ghosts over Brendon's cheek, his neck, his collarbone, his nipple.

"No," Brendon says, shaking his head and pushing forward, burying his face in Spencer's shoulder. After a moment, Spencer feels Brendon's arms slide around his neck, pressing even closer. "I want you to tell me what you want, and I'll do it."

Spencer pulls back, trying to disentangle himself. He can't, Brendon's holding on too tight. "Brendon," he manages, uneasily.

Brendon's shaking, and won't meet Spencer's eyes. "Doesn't matter about me," he tells Spencer. "Want to do whatever you want to do. I'm yours."

Spencer's brain whites out. "What?" he says. His skin burns with a mixture of _doesn't matter about me_ and _I'm yours_. Fuck, he thinks, _Brendon_.

"You want to fuck me?" Brendon whispers, pulling back. He's naked from the waist up. "You can if you want." He takes hold of Spencer's arm and tugs him further into the room, closer to the bed, further from the door. He kicks his discarded clothes out of the way and blinks. "Tell me what you want," he says, pulling undone the top button of his fly. "You want me to suck you off?" he asks, not waiting for an answer. He thrums with energy, with desperation, with need.

Spencer reads his skin like an SOS.

Spencer tries to catch his breath. "No-" he starts, but Brendon just stumbles to his knees, tugging Spencer closer.

"Brendon," Spencer says, his mouth dry. Brendon's pulling him closer. "_Brendon_," he says again. "Stop. Just _stop_."

Brendon freezes, hands clutching at Spencer's jeans.

"Brendon," Spencer says again, softer this time. He touches at Brendon's hair, running his thumb across Brendon's forehead. As he strokes at Brendon's hair, he can feel him stilling beneath him; his shivers become muted, his fingers stop shaking and rest against his thighs.

"Okay," Spencer says, after a minute. He feels ragged. He keeps stroking at Brendon's hair, his fingers tangling in the longer bits. He swallows, and tugs Brendon up so that he's sitting on the edge of the bed. He's fiddling with his fingers and not looking up at Spencer.

"It's okay," Brendon says dully. "I get it."

Spencer shakes his head. Brendon _doesn't_. "You don't," he says, and he strokes the hair away from Brendon's forehead. "_I_ don't," he says, too quietly.

Brendon looks up at him. He's pale and too quiet, and Spencer doesn't know how to make this better.

"I don't know how to fix this," Spencer tells him, after a moment.

Brendon shrugs, his fingers still in his lap. "Maybe you can't."

Spencer tries to swallow. He wants to fix this for Brendon, wants to fix it for both of them. He wants to make this _better_. "Maybe we can," he says after a minute. He thinks, _maybe I can_.

"I don't-" Brendon starts, but Spencer just shakes his head.

"Just," Spencer shakes his head again. "Just let me, okay?" He doesn't know what the fuck he's doing. He drops to his knees, sliding down off the bed onto the floor. Spencer doesn't want Brendon to be grateful just because Spencer's touching him, it isn't right, doesn't seem fair. He shifts so he's in between Brendon's legs, hands on Brendon's thighs.

"What," Brendon says, his eyes wide. "What are you doing?"

Spencer shrugs awkwardly. It's been a long time since he's done this. His fingers shake as he pulls at Brendon's fly, undoing the buttons until it's just Brendon's faded underwear between Spencer and Brendon's cock. He pulls at Brendon's waistband until Brendon lifts his hips away from the mattress and lets Spencer pull down his pants until they're pooled at his feet. "It's been a while," Spencer tells him. He licks his lips; his mouth is dry and he can't swallow.

"You don't have to-" Brendon says, but his eyes say otherwise.

Spencer ducks his head and takes Brendon's half-hard cock into his mouth.

It's kind of weird and it takes Brendon longer to get hard than it should have. He tastes strange but familiar, and Brendon's cock, heavy on his tongue, is almost enough to make Spencer gag. He doesn't know what he's doing here, why he's on his knees in between Brendon's legs, why he's trying to make something better that's clearly fucked beyond recognition. Brendon's hands are hovering over his shoulders, though, and it's not _right_.

Spencer slides back so he's just mouthing at the head of Brendon's cock; he reaches for Brendon's hand and places it firmly on his shoulder, letting Brendon's fingers brush at the ends of Spencer's hair. Brendon starts to make noises, soft keening sounds that have Spencer trying to take him further down, trying to do _more_, trying to make this better for Brendon. He wants this to fix everything, to fix _them_, but it can't and it won't, no matter how hard he tries.

Spencer wants him nearer. He's tugging Brendon closer, finger tips pressing into the pale skin in the hollow of Brendon's back, shuffling forward so his nose is brushing his own fingers, circling the base of Brendon's cock. His jaw aches and he thinks _what if I'm fucking us up more_ with every hollowed breath, spit-wet and hot and dark.

Brendon's fingers touch at Spencer's ears and Spencer's hard himself, pressing up against his fly. He wants everything back to the way it was, like the last year's never happened.

It takes longer than he remembers, but Brendon comes with a cry and a twist of his hips and Spencer chokes as he tries to swallow, come and spit running down his chin as he sits back on his heels, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. It's not graceful and it's not elegant and when he opens his eyes, everything's still the same. Nothing's changed and Brendon's still as skinny and unsure, even now when he's flushed red and his breath's catching.

"Spence," Brendon manages, and that's all the warning Spencer gets before Brendon's scrambling down off the bed and straddling Spencer's lap, burying his face in the curve of Spencer's neck, breathing fast and furious against Spencer's skin.

Spencer swallows, hard, and closes his eyes. He wraps his arms around Brendon's back and holds on.

He thinks: _maybe it'll be different when I open my eyes_.

It isn't. Brendon's still as tense as he was before, taut and trembling. Spencer's scared his disappointment shows in his eyes; he'd wanted to give Brendon what it was he needed, but it seemed like he'd just gotten it wrong again.

He holds on tighter and wishes he could fix this.

"If I ask you something, will you tell me the truth?" he asks, after a while, after the red flush to Brendon's skin has paled. He kisses at the underside of Brendon's jaw as reassurance, pressing his mouth to the skin in the curve of Brendon's neck.

Brendon's fingers tighten around Spencer's arms. "Yes," he says, after a moment, a ragged, shaky exhale of breath that catches at Spencer's skin.

"Is this-" Spencer struggles to verbalize what it is he's thinking. He remembers Brendon's quiet _I didn't think you wanted me_, and he swallows. He wants to show Brendon that he was wrong, that Spencer did want him – _does_, he thinks, and his breath catches. He thinks that maybe this is what Brendon wants, someone to take charge and look after what it is that he really needs.

They've both been alone for too long, and Spencer wants this, he really does. "Whatever the answer is," Spencer reiterates, "you'll tell me the truth."

Brendon swallows, but he raises his head so his gaze meets Spencer's. His eyes are dark and fierce. "Anything," he says, "I promise."

Spencer wants to tell him to be more careful with his promises, but he doesn't. Instead he shifts so he's resting back on his heels and Brendon's left kneeling over him. He touches at Brendon's wrist. "When I ask you," Spencer starts, hesitantly, "you can't tell me what it is you think you deserve. I'm not going to do that." Brendon sucks in a breath and Spencer's left closing his fingers around Brendon's wrist, his thumb grazing his pulse. "I need you to tell me what it is you want, Brendon."

"I- I don't get it," Brendon says, uncertainly. "Why-"

Spencer touches at Brendon's jaw with his other hand. "I want to do this for you," he says softly. "Will you let me?"

Brendon's nodding, but Spencer's still not sure that he understands. He closes his fingers around Brendon's wrist.

"When you thought about me and you," Spencer starts, thumb stroking the underside of Brendon's wrist, "when you thought about this. Will you tell me what you imagine happening? I want to do that for you. Give you what you want."

Brendon ducks his head so that his chin rests against his chest and Spencer can't help his ragged exhale. He reaches for him, touching at Brendon's cheek, cupping his jaw. Brendon's- fuck, he's _beautiful_ on his knees, even when he's too thin and he's only just about holding it together.

Brendon doesn't say anything.

"You promised you'd tell me," Spencer says, softly. He's better at hiding his apprehension than Brendon is; Brendon's eyes are wide and disbelieving.

"No-" he shakes his head. "I can't."

Spencer nudges Brendon's chin up, just enough that Brendon's gaze tilts and meets his. "Please," he says, and it's the truth. "I want to hear. I want you to tell me." If this is going to work, then Brendon has to tell him. He thinks that maybe he needs to hear it just as much as Brendon needs to say it. "I want to do this for you."

Brendon's cheeks are already flushing pink, his eyelashes dark against his skin. His fingers tremble, pinpricks of touch pressed tight into Spencer's skin.

"Go on," Spencer says.

Brendon nods slowly. "I'm on my knees," he starts.

"Like this?" Spencer asks, after a moment. He smoothes Brendon's hair away from his face, stroking Brendon's cheek with his thumb.

"No," Brendon closes his eyes, his blush pinking his skin. His voice shakes a little, so quiet that Spencer has to strain to hear. "You're standing over me."

"I'm not punishing you," Spencer says, softly, stroking Brendon's hair. "You can't ask me to. I can't do that. I won't."

"Yeah," Brendon says, after a moment. He nods. "I know. I'm not. I just. I want this."

Spencer strokes Brendon's cheek. "Go on," he says. "Tell me again."

"You're standing over me," Brendon tells him.

Spencer nods his okay. He's already shuffling back, kicking Brendon's clothes out of the way, getting ready to stand up. Whatever it is Brendon wants, Spencer wants to give it to him.

"You tell me it's okay," Brendon goes on, and Spencer reaches forward and cups Brendon's cheek in his palm. It's maybe too tender a moment and Spencer feels his skin burning, but it's too late and he can't stop.

Brendon's eyes open. He's waiting, and it takes Spencer a moment to cotton on.

"It's okay, Brendon," Spencer says, softly.

"You know that I'm yours," Brendon says, and he's talking too fast, words tripping over themselves in his rush to get them over and done with. "Yours and only yours," he goes on, and Spencer's having trouble hearing over the rushing in his ears. "You know it," he says, desperately, his voice hitching. "You do."

Spencer swallows. He does, he thinks, whether he wants it to be true or not. "Yeah," he agrees, because he can't not, his own voice catching. "Yeah. What happens then?"

"You take your clothes off," Brendon says.

Spencer rocks back on his heels and starts to take off his shirt. He tugs off his socks and tries not to notice how his fingers shake as he pulls down his zipper. "Like this?" he asks, because he wants this to be _right_.

"Yeah," Brendon nods quickly, licking his lips as Spencer kicks off his jeans and stands up straight.

Spencer's heavier than he used to be. He looks different, he thinks differently, he _is_ different. He wonders if it makes a difference to Brendon. He forces himself to stay still, to look down at Brendon and ask him if this is how he wants Spencer to be. "What now?"

Brendon's voice hitches. "I start to suck you off," he says, and Spencer can't help it, his cock responds and he knows Brendon's watching. He doesn't know if this should feel wrong or not; it doesn't.

Spencer moves closer. "Where do you want me?" he asks, because he can't not. He closes his own fist around the base of his cock, jerking himself loosely; his skin feels too tight.

Brendon's hands close around Spencer's hips, guiding him forward, to the side, just _there_. His mouth opens and his gaze slides upwards and he takes Spencer in without looking away.

Spencer hasn't been with anyone since Brendon. He couldn't let himself get close enough to try. Brendon's mouth on his cock is too much; the sensation of touch and of proximity is too intense. His hips push forwards and his fingers catch in Brendon's hair. Brendon's eyes close as he struggles to take Spencer down further. He's forgotten that Spencer doesn't want that, doesn't need that. Spencer likes his blow jobs sloppy and wet and he doesn't like to go deep. He doesn't like the feeling of his cock against the back of Brendon's throat. Spencer touches at Brendon's shoulder, nudging him backwards, trying to tell him to stay loose.

Brendon rests back on his heels, his mouth sliding off Spencer's cock. He looks defeated. "I'm sorry-" he starts, but Spencer doesn't want to hear it.

"No," Spencer says, fingers stroking at the back of Brendon's neck, pressing him forwards. "I'm not - I don't want you to stop. Just- just the head, okay? You remember?"

Brendon watches him for a moment, and Spencer feels his cheeks pinking. He thinks that maybe they both remember. Brendon's fingers press into Spencer's thighs, and he licks his lips, opening his mouth.

Spencer groans, his head falling back after Brendon starts licking at the head of his cock, slow and loose and loud, just like Spencer likes it.

All too soon, Brendon stops, sitting back on his heels. "You say you won't come in my mouth," Brendon tells him, eyes cast down, and Spencer remembers what it is they're doing, and _why_. He swallows down his initial desire just to tell Brendon to keep going.

"I'm not going to come in your mouth," Spencer says, and this should be the weirdest thing they've ever done, and it _is_, but it's okay. Like, maybe _they_ can be okay. Maybe figuring out what they both want – what they both _need_ \- maybe then they can figure out how to be okay again.

Brendon's skin is pale and his forehead gleams with sweat. He doesn't say anything more, although his mouth opens and Spencer can't help it, he touches at Brendon's reddened, saliva-wet lip with the pad of his thumb.

"I'll give it to you," Spencer says, softly. "What you want. You just need to tell me. You just need to ask."

"You start to jerk off," Brendon starts to say, so quietly.

Spencer's breath catches in his throat. He _can't_, he thinks. He can't. But Brendon's waiting for him, kneeling in front of him and watching. Brendon needs him, and maybe a year is too long to think about these things. Carefully, slowly, he curls his fist around his erection, thumb stroking across the tip, still wet from Brendon's mouth.

Brendon's shoulders tighten, but he doesn't move. Spencer feels like every fiber of Brendon's body is attuned to him, and his skin burns with the attention.

"Like this?" Spencer asks, his fist sliding slowly up his cock, thumb sweeping the head, back down again. Again.

Brendon's watching Spencer's face, not the movement of Spencer's hand on his cock, and that's somehow worse – or better, Spencer can't tell. The way the light hits Brendon, he's half-shadow, and Jesus, Spencer needs to make this better. For both of them.

"Yeah," Brendon says. He's kneeling with his hands in his lap.

It's the most – Spencer can't even think. He leans forward so he can cup Brendon's cheek with his other hand. He strokes down Brendon's pale neck, his thumb curving into the dip of his shoulder, touching at his jaw and back to his face. Brendon shifts so he's pressing his cheek against Spencer's palm. He kisses Spencer's wrist, and Spencer shivers, his breath catching.

"What happens now?" Spencer manages, a minute later. He's breathless, fisting himself quicker, tight, _nearer_. "Brendon," he says. "Please."

Sweat gleams across Brendon's pale forehead, his hair sticking to the skin. "You tell me that you're getting close," Brendon tells him, his voice hoarse and tight. "You tell me you want to mark me as yours."

Spencer gasps a breath. He thinks he knows what's coming, and he _wants_ it. It's not just Brendon that wants this.

Brendon squares his shoulders, meeting Spencer's gaze. "You tell me you're close," he says again, "and that you're going to come on my face."

"Fuck," Spencer manages, cupping Brendon's cheek again. His breath hitches and hips jerk forwards. He knows he's getting close; he tilts Brendon's chin up with his thumb.

"You have to tell me," Brendon says, almost-desperately. "You haven't told me."

What? Spencer can't think. He fixes on Brendon's face, at his dark eyes and his red-bitten lips. "I'm close," he says, breath catching. "I want to come on your face," he tells Brendon, trying to remember what it is Brendon wants him to say.

Brendon bites at his lips, trying not to speak.

"You're _mine_," Spencer says, and it isn't because Brendon's asked him to, it's because he _is_, and maybe he always has been. Because he wants him to be. He's jerking himself faster now, his fist a blur and it's all about the sensation, the tightness coiling in his belly, his hips stuttering an uneasy, fast rhythm.

"I love you," Brendon says fiercely. His eyes defy Spencer to disagree.

"Fuck, _Brendon_," Spencer says. His thumb rubs at Brendon's wet lip, opening his mouth. Brendon's eyes flutter shut and he opens his mouth wide. "_Fuck_," Spencer says again, and comes. He comes across Brendon's face, catching his cheeks, his lips and mouth and jaw. A little hits Brendon's neck and shoulder and Spencer's hand.

Brendon opens his eyes and Spencer drops awkwardly to his knees, his cock still half-hard and his hips slowly stilling. He smears his fingers across Brendon's face almost reverently, his thumb across Brendon's mouth. Brendon doesn't move, just continues to stay still as Spencer runs his palms across Brendon's face, smearing his come across Brendon's skin.

Brendon groans and licks at Spencer's thumb.

"Fuck," Spencer says again, his voice catching. His skin is burning hot and clammy; he edges closer to Brendon, eyeing the smeared streaks of come across Brendon's cheek, down to his jaw. Across his lips, his mouth. "Brendon," he says, in wonder, and then Brendon's tipping forwards and burying his face in Spencer's neck, his shoulders heaving.

Spencer wraps his arms around Brendon's thin shoulders and Brendon isn't crying – neither of them are – but Spencer can't get his breathing under control and it sounds like Brendon can't either.

Spencer feels- he feels, maybe, lighter. He rubs small circles across Brendon's shoulders, and doesn't let go.

\--

"We should get you cleaned up," Spencer says, after a while. Brendon's face is pressed into his neck, and Spencer's words are muffled in Brendon's hair.

Brendon shakes his head and presses closer. "No," he says, mouth against Spencer's collarbone.

"Come on," Spencer says, trying to pull away. Brendon's a heavy weight against his chest. "Let me wash your face."

"No," Brendon says, not moving away. He curls his hands around Spencer's arms. "Leave it."

"You're all messy," Spencer tries again.

"I don't care," Brendon shakes his head, sitting back on his heels. Spencer reaches out and cups Brendon's come-stained cheek; Brendon closes his eyes and presses into the touch. "I don't care," he says again, more desperately this time. "I want to stay like this."

"Okay," Spencer says, after a moment. He leans in and kisses Brendon's forehead. "You look good like this," he says, because maybe Brendon needs to hear it. Maybe Spencer needs to say it.

"Yeah," Brendon says, and holds Spencer tighter.

Spencer swallows hard. Brendon looks exhausted. "You want to sleep?" he asks finally, because Brendon looks like he's barely keeping his eyes open.

Brendon shakes his head. "No," he says, "Not just yet. I'm okay."

Spencer nods, stroking one finger down Brendon's cheek. "This whole year's been the worst year ever," he says, after a moment.

He feels Brendon flinch. Brendon tries to duck his head and lose Spencer's gaze, but Spencer won't let him. He touches at Brendon's chin, tilting his face up. His mom was right; they did both need to get on with their lives. He thinks that maybe he's needed Brendon as much as Brendon's needed him.

"I missed you so much," Spencer tells him. "I loved you."

Brendon's gaze snaps up to meet his, but he doesn't move away.

"I jerked off to boys who looked like you," Spencer goes on. "I told myself that they didn't. I just-" Spencer _hurts_. "I did. They did."

Brendon's fingers tighten around Spencer's arms. Spencer holds him close.

"You look tired," Spencer says again, after a minute. He strokes at Brendon's hair.

Brendon nods. "Yeah," he says. "I guess."

"You want to sleep?" Spencer asks again.

"If I do," Brendon says, "will you stay?" His hand closes around Spencer's wrist. "Please?"

Spencer hadn't thought that far. He sort of wants to go back to his room and crawl under the comforter and try and figure out what the hell just happened. "Brendon," Spencer says, but it doesn't come out the way he wanted it to. It's softer, gentler. He plays with Brendon's hair, smoothing out the tangles. "Yeah," he says, because the shadows under Brendon's eyes are purple, and because Brendon's thin and exhausted but mostly because Spencer doesn't want to let him go. "Come on," he says, and offers Brendon his hand to help him stand.

Spencer doesn't climb under the covers with Brendon. Instead, he pulls on his jeans and lies down next to him, on top of the blankets. He smoothes the hair away from Brendon's forehead and runs his fingers down Brendon's roughened, pink cheek.

"Will you be here when I wake up?" Brendon asks, through a yawn. He doesn't meet Spencer's gaze, just picks at a thread on the cover.

Spencer nods. "Yeah," he says, even though that hadn't been his intention. His mouth is dry. He'd given Brendon what he'd wanted, maybe what he'd _needed_, but he wasn't sure if it was enough, for either of them.

"Promise?" Brendon asks, ducking Spencer's gaze again. He touches at Spencer's arm with the tips of his fingers. He swallows. "I mean, you don't have to stay. You can go. If you want."

"Promise," Spencer nods, running his thumb across Brendon's lip. "I want you to ask me something," he says, and he knows his skin is reddening already.

Brendon looks tired and confused. "What?"

Spencer shrugs awkwardly. "That time in the diner," he says. "You asked me something. About forgiveness."

Brendon's cheeks flush. Spencer remembers his original answer as well as Brendon obviously does. He keeps touching at Brendon's face, feeling the dry come beneath his fingertips. _Mine_, he thinks, and he still doesn't know just what that means.

"Yeah," Brendon says. He doesn't meet Spencer's eyes.

"Will you ask me again?"

"Is your answer going to be the same as it was then?" Brendon tries to laugh, but it grates and Spencer's chest hurts.

"I think maybe you're just going to have to ask me."

"Okay." Brendon nods. There's a long moment where neither of them say anything, and Spencer wonders if he's gotten it all wrong. "I-" Brendon starts, and then he's shifting in the sheets, rolling over so he's lying on his side, facing Spencer. "Can you forgive me?" he asks, and this time he doesn't duck Spencer's gaze.

"I'm not saying we can just go back to the way things were," Spencer says, awkwardly. Maybe this has all been backwards, maybe the way things _were_ isn't what they should be aiming for, anyway. "I-" he tails off. "Yes," he says. "I can."

"But, will you, though?" Brendon won't meet Spencer's eyes again, and Spencer wants to reach out to him, pull him close.

He doesn't move. "Yeah," Spencer says, softly, after a minute. "I think I already have."

Brendon starts, his shoulders tightening. His fingers twitch in the covers. "Yeah?" he says.

"Yeah."

"What does that mean, though?" Brendon asks, haltingly. He still hasn't met Spencer's eyes. He's just picking at the cover, pulling at a thread.

"I-" Spencer doesn't know. "I don't know," he says finally. "I think it means we have to talk. But, maybe. Maybe we can work things out."

"Okay," Brendon says, after a minute. He bites at his lip.

"You should sleep," Spencer says. "You look tired."

Brendon nods. "You going to be here in the morning?"

Spencer swallows. "Yeah," he says. "I'll be here when you wake up."

\--

Spencer spends the night in the chair in the corner of Brendon's hotel room, one foot over the arm and the other tucked under him. He tries to sleep but he's gotten too used to the sleeping pills over the past few months, and the best he can manage is to doze on and off. He goes into the bathroom with his cellphone at just after five in the morning; he holds it in his palm and stares into the mirror over the sink and tries not to hyperventilate.

There isn't anyone he can call. His whole life was tied up with his band and when that went, so did all his friends and his social life and his conversation. Now he has Lucy and he has Hanim, and he's never spoken to either of them outside of work or their Friday night drinks. He can't start now, not when it's just past five in the morning and he's hiding in a hotel bathroom with Brendon sleeping five feet away, sprawled across the bed with the covers tangled around his waist.

Instead, he turns his phone off and slides it into the pocket of his jacket. He sits back down in the corner of the hotel room and tries to sleep.

\--

He must have dozed off because he's woken by a knock at the door. Before, back when he was still in the band and he didn't have to rely on sleeping pills to ease the shift in states, he'd been a light sleeper. Waking up so suddenly after so many months of sluggish half-sleep comes as a shock, and it takes him a moment to acclimatize. He's used to waking up being like wading through molasses. He wishes that he didn't have to rely on a fuck-load of pills to turn his life on and off again. He wants it to _stop_.

The knock comes again and Spencer answers it before he knows what he's thinking. He wants Brendon to be able to sleep; he wants him to wake up without the purple shadows under his eyes and the pale sheen to his skin.

It's Ryan at the door, and he says, "Have you seen Spencer, he's not answering-"

Ryan looks up, and there's a long moment where neither of them say anything.

"Oh," Ryan says, after a while.

"Brendon's asleep," Spencer tells him, stepping out into the hallway and holding the door behind him, careful not to let it shut and leave him locked out.

"Did you and he-" Ryan starts. "No," he goes on, shaking his head. "Fuck."

"Ryan-" Spencer doesn't know what to say.

Ryan shakes his head. "Don't do this to him," he says, after a moment. "Don't fuck with him. I know he totally screwed things up for the two of you, I know, but really. He's kind of-" Ryan stops. "He's kind of fragile."

"I know," Spencer says, tiredly. "I really know."

"You are too," Ryan says, quieter now. He reaches out, his hand touching at Spencer's elbow. "I don't think you could take it either."

Spencer feels suddenly exhausted. He shrugs his shoulders awkwardly.

"What are you doing with him?" Ryan asks.

Spencer doesn't know who Ryan's more concerned for, him or Brendon. He doesn't know if it matters. He sighs. "I promised I'd be here when he woke up, so."

"Spencer," Ryan says. "Spence."

"I miss him," Spencer can hear the desperate edge to his voice. "I've missed him all this time. I just-" he clenches his fists. He doesn't know. "I loved him, Ryan. I really fucking loved him."

Ryan rubs Spencer's elbow awkwardly. "Yeah," he says. "I know. You should go back in."

Spencer nods his okay.

"We were going to go for breakfast," Ryan says.

Spencer had forgotten. "Yeah."

"Maybe we could grab something before your flight?"

"Sure," Spencer says, and thinks, _home_. He doesn't know where that is anymore.

He agrees to meet Ryan in the lobby in an hour.

\--

Spencer lets Brendon sleep a while longer before he sits down on the bed and gently shakes him awake. He's holding a warm, damp face cloth from the bathroom and he wipes at Brendon's face, careful not to be too rough. "You were all messy," he says, lamely.

Brendon just nods, rubbing his damp cheek against the pillow. He still looks exhausted.

"I've got to go pack," Spencer says, softly, and Brendon rubs sleepily at his eyes. "I'm meeting Ryan in a while."

"Yeah," Brendon says, and then Spencer can't help it, he leans in and presses a kiss to the corner of Brendon's mouth.

Brendon shifts, leaning over and winding his arms around Spencer's neck. "I'm sorry," he says, "I'm really fucking sorry."

"It's okay," Spencer says, and it _is_, it really kind of is. It maybe really finally _is_. "I'm sorry too."

\--

They don't say goodbye. Brendon sits up and watches as Spencer gathers up his stuff, and then Spencer nods and lets the door close quietly behind him.

\--

Spencer packs carefully, neatly folding his clothes and balling his socks into his shoes. He puts his book into his messenger bag, and unplugs his iPod from the charger. He winds the headphone wire carefully around it and slides it into the inside pocket of his messenger bag.

He zips up his suitcase and leaves it by the door with his messenger bag propped up in front of it. He makes his bed and leaves the bathroom tidy and then pulls on his jacket and buttons it up. It kind of smells a little like Brendon.

\--

Ryan's late to meet him, and Spencer's left waiting by the hotel entrance, tapping his feet and feeling awkward. He's spent too long trying to blend into the background; he's intimidated by the fluidity of the people around him. He keeps his eyes fixed on the elevators, watching for Ryan to arrive.

"Sorry," Ryan says, five minutes later. "Did you get my message?"

Spencer shakes his head, pulling his phone out of his back pocket. He isn't used to the idea of people contacting him; he's forgotten to switch it back on.

"Oh, well. Sorry." Ryan shrugs uncomfortably. "I got caught up. I thought you'd get my message."

"That's okay," Spencer says. It sort of is. "I should keep my phone on more."

"Yeah," Ryan says, and offers him an awkward smile.

\--

They walk to a diner down the block and order stacks of pancakes and coffee. Spencer isn't so sure he wants the pancakes; he's tired and he feels kind of queasy. He's still feeling the pressure from the evening before, the roar of the audience and the scream of the crowd. He can hear the kids calling their names, still see the way Zack had cleared the way down the hallway for them. Feel the heat. See the way Brendon had looked in front of the crowd, the way he'd smiled when they'd re-introduced Spencer to the band.

"How are you doing?" Ryan asks, after the server has filled their coffee cups. They're waiting on the pancakes.

"Okay, yeah, fine," Spencer says, without thinking. He's forgotten what it's like for people to see through him. Even his mom doesn't push anymore.

Ryan raises an eyebrow. "Spencer-"

Spencer shrugs awkwardly. "Yeah." He knows. There are some things even distance and time can't erase, and he hopes he's not always going to feel that way around Ryan. He misses him. "I'm okay." _Brendon's okay_, he thinks, but he doesn't say it.

"You were good last night," Ryan says, changing the subject. "How'd it feel?"

"Good," Spencer says. "It felt-" he stops, unable to think of a single word to describe how it felt, "good."

Ryan rolls his eyes. "All those years of education," he says, "and look how we turned out."

Spencer laughs. He remembers the unopened college guides; not going maybe doesn't hurt so much as it once did. "That's a SAT level vocabulary, right there."

Ryan knocks Spencer's knee under the table with his own. He grins, and they don't say anything else until the pancakes arrive.

\--

"You really coming back?" Ryan asks later, almost-casually. "For good?"

"To the band?" Spencer rolls his shoulders. They're tight. He lets out a deep breath. "Yeah," he says, after a while. "Yeah, I think so. Once I've finished up. Back, you know. In Seattle."

Ryan nods. He sounds almost choked. "That's- that's great, Spencer."

Spencer looks down at the remains of his pancakes. "Yeah. I mean. It won't be for a couple of months. There's some stuff I've got to take care of."

"Have you told Brendon?" Ryan asks, carefully. He's cutting the remains of his pancakes into tiny bite size pieces.

"I-" Spencer shrugs. "I haven't told him for definite. Haven't told him when, yet. I will, though."

"About you and Brendon-" Ryan trails off.

"I don't know." Spencer spoons more sugar into the dregs of his coffee. "We'll work it out, for the band at least. More than that-" he stops. "I don't know. I want- I think we both want, to, you know. See."

Spencer remembers when he used to be able to tell what Ryan was thinking without even having to work at it. It's harder now, what with everything. He's tired of having to work so hard to make everything right. He's just tired.

Ryan bumps Spencer's knee with his. "Hey," he says, and Spencer looks up, meeting Ryan's eye. Ryan's half-smiling, biting his lip. "I'm glad you're coming back."

"Yeah," Spencer nods. "Me too."

\--

"My dad always liked you," Ryan says, after a while. "He thought you were a good influence."

"Me?" Spencer can't help but smile and shake his head. "I can't believe it."

"Yeah, I know," Ryan says, "but it's true."

Spencer laughs, pushing his stack of pancakes across the plate and into the syrup. "Maybe he was confusing me with someone else."

"No," Ryan says, and he's smiling but his eyes are bright. "He knew who he was talking about."

Spencer ducks his head and concentrates on his plate. "Ryan-"

"I'm not going to screw up again," Ryan says, suddenly. "I wouldn't do that. Not again. Not to you."

"Ryan," Spencer says again. He doesn't know what to say.

"You're my best friend," Ryan says, quietly and fiercely, "And I'm not losing you again."

Spencer swallows loudly. Underneath the table, his knee knocks against Ryan's. He leaves it there for a moment, and concentrates on cutting his pancakes into pieces.

"You want more coffee?" he asks, after a while. "I'm all out."

Ryan nods. "Sure," he says, and nudges his cup towards Spencer's.

\--

They spend too long in the diner, drinking coffee and pushing their pancakes around their plates. When Ryan realizes the time, he calls Zack and has him bring Spencer's bags down from his room as he and Spencer hurry back down the street to the hotel.

Jon and Zack are waiting for them in the lobby with Spencer's stuff.

Spencer's throat is tight as he shakes hands with Zack. He never got to say goodbye the first time he left, so he kind of holds on too tightly and for too long. Zack claps him on the back, and then Jon leans in for a hug.

He's left knocking shoulders with Ryan. They stare at each other awkwardly until Ryan pulls him close for a clumsy hug.

"You should call me sometime," Spencer says, when he pulls away, and he means it. He's missed Ryan more than he can properly put into words.

Ryan nods, too quickly. "Yeah," he says, and Spencer hopes he will. There's a lot of ground for them to make up.

Brendon's waiting by the door, hopping awkwardly from foot to foot. He's only wearing a t-shirt and the air outside is cold.

"You should put a sweater on," Spencer says as he walks over. His throat is dry.

"I didn't want to miss you," Brendon says, shivering. "I wanted to say goodbye."

"I'm coming back," Spencer tells him, and Brendon's gaze flicks up to Spencer's. "For good."

"Yeah?"

Spencer nods, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Probably in a couple of months. When I've got everything sorted."

"That's- that's good," Brendon says, and he's smiling, his eyes bright. He looks hopeful.

"Yeah," Spencer says, and he smiles back. Something's loosening inside of him, unwinding and uncoiling and it feels like he can breathe again, for the first time in a long time.

They're just staring at each other when Zack says, "Guys. Spence. Come on. We've got to go."

Brendon darts forward and wraps his arms around Spencer's neck. Spencer can't help but lean in and hug back. He lets out a long breath.

"Maybe I could call you, or something," Spencer says, into Brendon's hair.

"Yes," Brendon says, nodding. They're pulling away, Spencer has to go. "I'd like that."

"Me too," Spencer says, and he's not sure what comes over him but he leans in and kisses Brendon's cheek.

\--

At the airport, Spencer's flight is delayed. He finds himself a seat by the departure gate and pulls out his book. It's difficult to concentrate with all the noise, so after a while, he takes out his iPod. He listens to Green Day on repeat all the way back to Seattle.

\--

Jon keeps in touch the most consistently. He sends Spencer an email or a text a couple of times a day, something stupid and casual and regular as clockwork. He emails pictures of his cats, or sometimes his plate of food in a diner. He tells Spencer about Cassie's birthday, about the gifts he's trying to pick out and the airplane tickets he sends her so she can come out and join him the weekend after her birthday. It's purposefully relaxed, and Spencer is stupidly grateful. He tries to reply in the same vein, but it's hard. He doesn't take pictures, not really, but he snaps a few on his low-budget cellphone, grainy shots of the boats on the water or the line in Starbucks before he goes into the office. He sends them to Jon, sometimes without a note. Jon always replies.

Ryan calls him up at times when Spencer seems to least expect it. It's kind of weird; they're both trying really hard but their conversations are disjointed and irregular. Ryan hadn't ever been a big talker, not really, not on the phone, and Spencer's left to fill the gaps in the conversation. It's been so long since he's done it, so long since he's just had a normal conversation that he thinks it's no real surprise to either of them that their phone calls end up being stilted and awkward.

After the first time, Spencer kind of expects Ryan not to call back, but he does, every couple of days. Spencer feels like their phone calls are like an endurance test, hard work and difficult and prone to leaving him breathless. Somewhere underneath, it sort of feels like an achievement, getting through each one and out the other side.

He feels like they're getting somewhere, like they're almost friends again. There's something unwinding in his chest, slowly.

Spencer leaves it a couple of days before he calls Brendon. He tells himself he's just getting settled back in, unfolding his clothes and doing his laundry and tidying his bedroom. He has a calendar pinned to the wall by his dresser and he carefully counts out two months, marking the date with a colored pen. He's not sure whether he's dreading the day or counting down to it, but either way he knows he needs the change. For a moment in time, a few days out of a year or more, he felt connected, like he was a part of something bigger. After writing the date in his dayplanner to take into work, he takes his phone out of his pocket and calls Brendon.

Brendon answers after the third ring, and Spencer has to take a deep breath before he can talk.

They say _hey_, and _how are you_, and after they've both said, _good, good_, then there's a silence.

"Where are you?" Spencer asks. He picks at the skin by his thumbnail.

"Like, where are we in the country or where am I right now?"

"Either," Spencer says. "Both."

Brendon hums awkwardly. "We're in L.A.," he says. "And right now I'm in my room in the hotel."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." There's a pause, and some background noise, then nothing. "You just get home? How was work? "

"Okay," Spencer says. "The same." He thinks about his office; about Tim and Tina and Lucy and Hanim and the spreadsheets he works on day after day. The rigidity of expectation.

"Did you tell them-" Brendon stops. There's a pause, then, "You're still coming back, right? You didn't change your mind?"

"I'm still coming back," Spencer says, softly. "I'm coming back, Brendon."

"That's good," Brendon tells him after a beat. "I mean, that's good, yeah? It's good that you're coming back, I didn't mean-" he tails off.

"Brendon," Spencer says. He's coming back for Brendon. He's been trying to tell himself that he isn't, that everything else matters just as much, but really, underneath it all, he's doing this _now_ because of Brendon. He's scared that going back to the band is going to screw up this fragile peace he's got with Ryan; he's scared that he's going back too soon. Sooner or later, he thinks, everything else – his crappy job, getting to play music again, _Ryan_, being lonely, time – would have drawn him back in, but it's Brendon that's drawing him back _now_. "It's okay."

Brendon sighs.

"What have you been up to?" Spencer asks, changing the subject. His fingers itch. He shucks off his shoes, carefully, and pushes them to one side with his toes.

"Oh, you know," Brendon says. "I've been doing some stuff in the studio for Pete. For Fall Out Boy, really. It's nothing, really, just some words."

"You've been singing?"

Missy pads into his bedroom, nudging open the door and coming over to the bed. She walks across the bed without paying much attention to him, carefully curling herself up in his lap and closing her eyes. Spencer scratches her between the ears; she purrs.

"Only a bit," Brendon says. "Just a few lines."

"Has Patrick gotten a mix together yet?" Spencer asks. He can't think about leaving Missy. Without her, he doesn't think he'd have gotten through the past few months.

"I dunno," Brendon says, awkwardly. "Maybe."

"You could email it to me, if you like," Spencer says. "When you get it. Like, whatever stage it's at, if Patrick'll let you. I'd like to hear it."

"You would?" Brendon sounds genuinely surprised and Spencer's chest tightens.

"Yeah," he says, nodding. "You back in the studio tomorrow?"

"Only in the morning," Brendon says. "Patrick says an hour, but Pete says a morning, so. You know."

"I was-" Spencer stops, clears his throat. "I thought I might call you when you finish. If you don't mind. Maybe you could get Patrick to play it for me. You know. There and then."

"Yeah," Brendon says, after a beat. "I'd really like that."

\--

Recording overruns in LA; Spencer gets a text message from Brendon when he switches on his phone at lunch time, _not going well. Pt n ptrick yelling. Srry.will try n call l8tr.b x_

Spencer's strangely disappointed. He texts, _srry 2 hear that.hope this afternoon goes better._

He unwraps his sandwich and unrolls his National Geographic and flips to the middle.

\--

He doesn't call Brendon every evening, but it's a close run thing. He finds himself playing a waiting game; he's got a penciled date on his calendar and he's counting down.

He talks to Brendon and Jon texts him and Ryan calls him up at odd times of the day, launching straight into a conversation and waiting for Spencer to catch up.

It's familiar, and it's beginning to feel comfortable again. He's starting to feel like he's a part of something all over again. Things are getting better.

He talks to Jodie about keeping his room while he's away. He's thought about it a lot and he's not ready to move back to Las Vegas yet. He's got a life here, of a sort, and he needs that back-up plan to still be available to him, after. If he needs it. He'll still pay his share of the bills, he says, even when he's not there. He doesn't say _I can't leave Missy, not yet_, but that's what he means.

Spencer kind of loves that cat a whole lot.

Jodie's not exactly comfortable with the idea at first. She asks him all sorts of questions about what he's going to be doing, and he ends up trying to explain about the band, about leaving and coming back and everything in between. He ends up googling _panic! at the disco_ and showing her a picture of them, back in the day, him and Brendon and Ryan and Brent. It's the first time he's looked at pictures of them since he walked out, since he flipped out and ran away and left everything he knew behind him.

It hurts, but it's more like a dull ache somewhere beneath his rib cage instead of a stabbing pain in his chest. It's _sad_, like maybe all this could have been avoided. Brent could have quit instead of being sacked; he could have explained about wanting to do something else that wasn't playing in a band and maybe things would have been different. Spencer wouldn't have been left feeling this strange mix of horror and betrayal and relief, guilt and sadness and everything else, all mixed up somewhere in his belly, eating away at him all this time.

Brent had been the catalyst for everything that followed. They'd all been carrying the guilt around with them, trying to pretend that there wasn't a gaping hole where their friendship with Brent used to be. They'd tried to pretend that having Jon fill in had been the same as Brent being there; they'd had to pretend that there wasn't this anger and frustration eating away at all of them, this barely hidden confusion simmering somewhere beneath the surface.

The fracture that had started with Brent had just kept on going, twisting past Brendon and Spencer to Haley and Ryan and everything and everyone else in Spencer's life. The confusion that had started with Brent had just kept on growing until Spencer had stood outside a half-open door and listened to his life breaking down around him.

"You look different," Jodie says, looking between the picture on the computer screen and Spencer.

"That was the idea," Spencer says, after a moment. He bites his lip. "I just-" he shrugs. "I'm happy here. I don't want to move someplace else."

It's only half a lie.

"Okay," Jodie says, after a while. "We'll see if we can't make it work."

Spencer nods his relief and goes to find Missy, lying down next to her on his bed and stroking her softly. "I've still got you," he whispers, and he doesn't care how lame he sounds.

Later on, he calls Brendon. "I've spoken to Jodie about me keeping the room on here," he says.

Brendon's breath catches. "What-"

Spencer shakes his head. "No," he says, quickly, "I'm still coming back to the band." He hears Brendon's ragged exhale, and he kind of wishes he was there so he could reach out and touch him, dropping his hand to Brendon's shoulder until the tension seeped out of him and his shoulders dropped. He contents himself with stroking Missy, scratching her belly so that she purrs. "I'm just- I'm not ready to come back to Las Vegas yet. You get that, right?"

"Yeah," Brendon says, after a while. "I- I think so. I wish you were, though."

"I just- Not yet. I can't, yet." Spencer sighs. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Brendon says. There's a long pause. "Patrick sent through a mix of that song, I can send it through to you, if you want."

"Cool," Spencer says, rolling onto his back. Missy pads up onto his belly, kneading at his sweater with her paws. She eyes him carefully, but doesn't stop. "You should play it for me now though, too."

"Down the phone?" Brendon asks, doubtfully. "This is a pretty shitty reception. It's not going to sound good."

"That's okay," Spencer says. "I just want to hear."

"Okay," Brendon says. "Hang on a sec."

The track sounds pretty amazing, even with the shitty cellphone reception.

"You should have just waited for the mp3," Brendon tells him, after it's finished playing. "Then you could have heard more than just, I don't know. Static."

"Shut up," Spencer says, with a smile. "You sounded great."

Brendon laughs before he can stop himself, and for an abrupt moment there's just _silence_.

"I'm really fucking glad you're coming back," Brendon says fervently, eventually.

Spencer agrees.

\--

Spencer gives his notice in two and a half weeks before he's due to leave Seattle to rejoin Panic!. He hands in his resignation to Tim in his office; Spencer waits in front of Tim's desk until he's done reading.

"This is kind of- sudden," Tim says, putting the letter down on his desk beside his keyboard. "I didn't know you were looking for something else."

Spencer wants to tell him that it's anything but sudden, that's it's been so long coming he feels like he's been going backwards this whole time. He doesn't, though. He just stands there and tries to smile. "I'm sorry," he says. He's not. He's counting down the days, although deep down, he still finds the rigid structure and the inflexibility of expectation somehow safe and reassuring.

"Are you going to need a reference?" Tim asks, sorting through his papers.

Spencer shakes his head. "I'm kind of okay."

That must be weird to hear. Tim looks up at him, watching him carefully. Spencer doesn't share, and Tim doesn't ask. "Okay," Tim says, after a while. "You'll get an acknowledgement letter from Human Resources in a couple of days."

Spencer nods, and goes back to his desk to get started on his pile of data entry.

\--

Donna comes up from downstairs when she hears. "You're leaving us, then?" she says, and Spencer can't help but nod.

"I always knew you were a good worker," Donna says, "I've got an eye for it."

"Yeah," Spencer says, and he shakes her hand and says _thank you_, because she'd given him a chance when no one else had, and it had kind of meant a lot.

She smiles at him, kind around the eyes. "When are you having your leaving party?"

Spencer hasn't even thought. "Um-" he starts, but then Tina comes over and sits on the corner of Spencer's desk. Spencer fights the urge to nudge her off his pile of papers. She's knocked his in-trays off balance.

"Two weeks tonight, isn't that right?" Tina says, butting in. "It's tradition, Friday night drinks."

Donna smiles again. "I'll spread the word," she says, and Spencer's kind of confused. He hardly knows anyone here, has barely had a conversation in the whole year he's been working in this office building.

"Everybody loves a party," Tina says, with a smirk, as Donna heads back towards the elevator. Spencer rolls his eyes. "So," she says, "you going to invite Pete Wentz to this shindig?"

Spencer thinks that at one point, that might have been enough to make him flip out. Briefly, he entertains the idea of getting Pete up here for his leaving party, getting him to put a Wentzian spin on proceedings. He stops himself with a grin, leaning over and tapping her arm. "Back to work, you," he says, lightly.

He thinks he's surprised her, because she blinks and stands up, heading back to her desk. He's half-heartedly giving himself a mental pat on the back when she stands up from behind her cubicle wall.

"James," she says, and he refrains from rolling his eyes.

"What?"

"Drinks tonight?" she asks.

He glances across to Lucy's desk, then Hanim's. They're both looking at him, smiling. "Okay," he says. "Sure."

\--

He works right through the afternoon, steadily moving down his pile of files, entering them onto his spreadsheet. Most of the rest of the office has been winding down ready for the weekend, taking extended trips to the coffee room and hanging around the photocopier.

By the time five o'clock rolls up, there's only a few of them left at their computers, everyone else congregating around the break room, getting their coats on and emptying the kitchen of their Tupperware lunch boxes and their lunchtime shopping bags. He yawns and shuts down his computer, half-heartedly tidying his desk and kicking the box of empty files further under his desk.

Lucy's one of the only people left working, hurriedly finishing up with her pile of files. She'd spent most of the morning dealing with her computer crashing every time she tried to load SPSS and she's been rushing the whole afternoon, trying to catch up.

Spencer and Hanim hang over her cubicle and tell her to _hurry up_ as she shuts down her PC. There's something uncoiling in Spencer's belly. He smiles.

When Lucy's done, they follow the others down the hallway towards the elevators. They're still waiting, because 5pm on a Friday is the busiest time to try and go down, so they all watch as the numbers tick by on the dial above the doors.

"Hey, James," Tina asks, once they're all pressed into the elevator and everyone's stuck trying to avoid eye contact with each other, "Where did you say you were going to be working after you leave here?"

"I didn't," Spencer says carefully. Lucy's beside him; she bumps his elbow reassuringly. After a moment he says, "I'm kind of going back to my old job." The elevator doors open to the main foyer, and there's no time for anyone to question him.

As Lucy and Hanim and Spencer were the last ones in, they're also the first ones out, pushing through the doors and onto the sidewalk.

"You okay?" Hanim says, quietly so that no one else can hear. "Just ignore them, okay?"

"Thanks," Spencer says, and he really, really should have made more of an effort. Lucy and Hanim are good people. They could have been friends much earlier than this. "I'm okay-" he trails off, stopping short and coming to a sudden halt. Someone bumps into his elbow and Lucy walks into his back.

Brendon's leaning up against the railing by the side of the street, watching the doors. He straightens up when he sees Spencer.

"What the-" Spencer manages.

"Hey," Brendon says, awkwardly.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, without moving. He hears someone behind him say _what's the hold up_?

"James?" someone says.

"Spencer," Lucy says, quietly, tugging on his sleeve. "Come on. You're holding everyone up."

"Sorry," Spencer says distractedly. He steps out of the way of everyone, over to the side of the street where Brendon's standing, hands stuffed into his coat pockets and bouncing from foot to foot.

"What are you doing here?" he asks again.

Brendon shrugs awkwardly. "I can go, if you want. I just-" he stumbles over his words, not meeting Spencer's eyes. "I just wanted to see you."

"Oh," Spencer manages. He can't think straight. Behind him, people are talking, holding up the sidewalk. He can hear Tina saying over everybody else that they won't get a table if they don't hurry up.

"I didn't know if it would be okay," Brendon tells him. "I didn't want to ask in case you said no."

"I- I wouldn't have said no," Spencer says. He reaches out and touches Brendon's sleeve. He doesn't let go.

Brendon's breath catches.

"James, are you coming, or what?" Tina asks finally.

"Yeah," Spencer says distractedly. "In a minute."

"I didn't know you were going to be busy," Brendon says. "I didn't mean to intrude- I mean, I could go back. I've got a room in a hotel-"

"_James_," Tina says, again.

"We're going for drinks," Spencer says, quickly. "You could come. If you wanted."

Brendon throws a glance over Spencer's shoulder, to Spencer's co-workers. "Okay," he says, after a moment. "If you're sure."

Spencer nods. "Come on then."

"Ready?" Tina asks, as Spencer turns around. He's still holding on to Brendon's sleeve. Tina can't hide the interested look on her face.

"Yeah," Spencer says, "Sorry."

They walk behind everyone, even Lucy and Hanim.

Brendon says, "I'm sorry- I didn't think. You had plans."

Spencer shakes his head. "No," he says. "Well. Yes. But-" he trails off. "I'm glad you came," he says, finally. He risks a look across at Brendon; he's wearing a new jacket, a red quilted one that reminds Spencer of when they were kids, when they were just starting out back in Nevada and Brendon used to wear his mom's old coat. "You got a new coat," he says, kind of abruptly. "It looks good. I like it."

Brendon looks down, as if to remind himself what he's wearing. "Oh, yeah." He shrugs. "I kind of liked it. Figured I needed something new, my old one was falling apart. Reminds me of that coat I used to have, you remember-"

Spencer nods quickly. "I remember," he says, cutting Brendon off. "Whatever happened to that?"

"Can't remember," Brendon says. "It got lost, somewhere."

"Yeah," Spencer says.

He moves to avoid someone walking towards them on the sidewalk with a baby in a stroller. It takes him closer to Brendon and his fingertips brush the back of Brendon's hand.

He doesn't move away again.

\--

The bar is pretty quiet for a Friday night and they manage to get the long table in back without any problem. His co-workers are eyeing Brendon oddly; all this time the rest of Spencer's life has remained shrouded in mystery and he can tell that they're intrigued. In the end, just after they've ordered a second round of drinks, Tina pushes Tim and Debbie aside and sits down opposite Brendon.

"I'm Tina," she says, brightly.

Brendon's not their frontman for nothing. "Brendon," he says, and holds out his hand. Spencer presses his thigh to Brendon's, waiting a moment until he receives Brendon's answering press.

"So," she goes on, "You and James. Where do you know each other from?"

"Oh," Brendon says carefully. "You know. Way back when."

"When we were kids," Spencer puts in.

"Like, little kids?" Debbie asks, ignoring her conversation with Tim in favor of listening in.

"High school," Spencer says, with a shrug. "We used to hang out." It's not a lie, exactly. Brendon shoots him a glance.

"Yeah," Brendon says. "We used to hang out when we were in high school."

"Oh," Tina says, but neither Spencer nor Brendon expand. Something thrums beneath Spencer's skin; something tight and painful. He can't look at Brendon.

"What are you reading at the moment?" Lucy asks, after the silence goes on a moment too long. She knows the answer, she's already had this conversation with Spencer once already in the past couple of days. "I've just started _War and Peace_, you've read that, right?"

Spencer swallows, "Yeah," he says, and he can feel Brendon's eyes on him, but he can't meet them. "It's pretty good. Apart from the bits where he gets all thinky and starts talking about the nature of war. I kind of skipped those bits."

Hanim raises an eyebrow. "The bits where he gets all thinky?"

Spencer laughs; he can feel the pressure easing now that Tina's attention is directed elsewhere. She's talking to Debbie and Tim, leaving them to talk about books by themselves.

"You've read _War and Peace_?" Brendon asks, after a moment. "That's, like a pretty huge book, Spence. That's a _book_."

Spencer shrugs his shoulders uncomfortably. He wants to say _I've kind of had some time to kill_, but he doesn't. "It took me a while," he says. "But it's pretty good."

He doesn't realize Brendon's mistake until a few moments later. He freezes, but Lucy and Hanim don't seem to have noticed and no one else is listening. He tries to focus on his breathing, willing his heartbeat to slow down. He's counting slowly, concentrating on breathing in, breathing _out_-

"You okay?" Brendon asks. His hand is on Spencer's wrist.

There's something tight coiling in Spencer's belly and he doesn't know how to make it go away. "Look," Spencer says, under his breath. He's not sure what he's feeling but he doesn't belong here, he never has. Inside, his stomach hurts and he wants to go somewhere he can look Brendon up and down and check that he's been looking after himself better. "You want to get out of here? Maybe go someplace else?"

Brendon nods quickly, eyes darting down the table and back again. "Yeah," he says. "That sounds- good."

"Right." Spencer reaches for his coat and his backpack and his gloves. "We're going to go," he says to Lucy and Hanim.

Lucy nods, Hanim a fraction of a second behind. Spencer thinks they know exactly who Brendon is, but they haven't let on. Spencer wants to thank them for that, thank them for letting him have these last moments of anonymity. He wants to thank them for giving Brendon that, too. He puts his hand on Lucy's shoulder as he moves out from behind the table, squeezing gently. He pats Hanim awkwardly on the back.

He thinks they get it; Lucy pinks a little and Hanim smiles a little uncomfortably, ducking his eyes from Spencer's gaze.

"It was nice meeting you," Hanim says, leaning over the table and shaking Brendon's hand.

Spencer thinks that it's a shame he hasn't made more of an effort with Lucy and Hanim outside of these Friday night drinks; he thinks that maybe they could have been friends. Maybe he should have trusted them more with his secrets; the ones they've figured out for themselves they've kept. Spencer should have given them more credit, maybe.

"Same," Brendon says. He pauses uncomfortably, fingers tapping against his pants. "I'm glad he had friends like you," he says, too quickly. "I mean-" he tails off.

They nod, and Spencer swallows. "We should go," he says, and Brendon jerks his head in some semblance of agreement.

"It was nice meeting you all," Brendon says, to the rest of the table. He doesn't meet any of their eyes, already reaching behind him for his scarf and wrapping it around his neck.

Tina smiles, and Spencer wondered whether he's ever actually _liked_ her. She's always been too close to finding out, too close to being one of those people who posed a threat to his seclusion. "Have a good night now, James," she says, and Brendon's head shoots up.

Spencer thinks that maybe Brendon's remembered. He shoots Spencer a glance, eyes dark.

"We will," Spencer says, "See you all on Monday."

He doesn't look back once he's walking away, doesn't look back to see if Brendon's following. He wants to hold his hand out behind him, and for Brendon to hold on, but they're not there yet. He contents himself with curling his fingers into the lining of his coat pocket, and slowing down on the steps up and out of the bar so that Brendon can catch up.

When they get up to the street, Spencer rolls his shoulders, letting out a deep breath. "You okay?" he says, as they start to walk down the sidewalk.

Brendon nods. "Yeah," he says. "Look- Spence. I'm sorry for just turning up like this. I just. I missed you. I didn't think-"

"I'm glad you're here," Spencer interrupts, surprising himself. "I'm glad you came." He swallows. "I wanted to see you too."

"Okay," Brendon says. "Good."

They don't say anything for a while, walking down the street touching elbows. It's weird, Spencer thinks, _this_. Them. He can't remember ever wanting anything so badly as for things to be okay between him and Brendon again. He doesn't even know what _okay_ has to mean, just that things need to be better and he's willing to do whatever it takes so long as it means it's going to happen.

"Fuck," Brendon says, after a minute. He stops walking, and Spencer's heart stops with him, just for a moment, but then Brendon just grabs Spencer's wrist and steps in and kisses him.

It isn't how Spencer imagined any of this, but he's pulling Brendon closer with a hand to Brendon's back, his other hand curled in Brendon's hair, and he's kissing back. Brendon's tongue slides into his mouth, desperate and breathless, and Spencer just kisses him harder.

"I-" Spencer says, after they've pulled away. "Brendon," he says, helplessly, and Brendon shivers.

"Missed you," Brendon says, awkwardly, ducking his gaze. He's wearing his converse again, scruffy and worn. He toes the sidewalk.

"Yeah. Me too." Spencer clears his throat. "Where are you staying?"

Brendon stuffs his hands in his pockets. "I've got a hotel room," he says, and then he's pulling a piece of paper out of his coat pocket, folded into four and hopelessly creased. "The Westin, I think," he says, unfolding the paper. It's one of those online hotel reservations, printed off on a crappy printer with a faded stripe of ink down the left hand side.

Spencer blinks for a moment, and then holds his hand out for the piece of paper. He doesn't read it, not really, just holds it and looks down at it and tries to think clearly and not concentrate on Brendon beside him, jittery and cold and biting his lip. "You could come back to my place," Spencer says, after a minute. "I don't know. This isn't-"

He doesn't know what it isn't, and he doesn't know what it is, either. He just- doesn't want Brendon to go just yet.

Brendon nods, carefully. He holds his hand out for the reservation and folds it into four again, sliding it into his pocket.

\--

Spencer's apartment is in darkness when they get in. It's not so late, which means that Jodie and Michael are out doing their own thing. It's warm though, which makes a change from outside. They stand in the hallway inside Spencer's apartment and stare at each other.

"Do you want a drink?" Spencer asks. He unbuttons his coat, slowly, and then hangs it on the peg by the kitchen door. He holds his hand out for Brendon's jacket, and he hangs it up beside his own, draping Brendon's scarf over the top.

"Sure," Brendon says. "What have you got?"

"Milk," Spencer says, opening up the fridge door. "Or OJ. Or I could do chocolate milk." He doesn't offer coffee, even though he has a tub of grounds. The last thing either of them needs is caffeine. He has a packet of chocolate powder somewhere.

"Chocolate milk, please," Brendon tells him, standing awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen and looking around.

Spencer rinses two glasses and fills them with milk, adding the powder and stirring. He has half a packet of chocolate chip cookies in a Tupperware box in his cupboard, he takes them out but doesn't offer them, keeping them close to his chest. "Come on," he says.

They sit on the edge of Spencer's bed with the packet of cookies between them and the door closed. Missy is asleep behind them, curled up into a circle. Spencer scratches her between the ears, watching as she blinks open her eyes and yawns. She eyes Spencer sleepily, and Spencer smiles.

"This is Missy," he says. "She's kind of been my best friend."

Brendon doesn't look up, but Spencer sees him flinch. "She's lovely," he says carefully, after a moment. His voice maybe sounds a little off. He scratches her between the ears, and she nudges his hand, wanting more.

"Go on," Spencer says, "she likes you." He hadn't ever wanted to share before, but it doesn't hurt like he thought it would. Brendon's managing half a smile, stroking Missy right along her back and down her tail. Missy's purring, padding up and into Brendon's lap.

Brendon makes a surprised breath of a noise, a huffed sound that's just about, but not quite, a laugh. He looks at Spencer almost in wonder, biting his lip. Missy, after a moment, curls up on his lap and presses her face into Brendon's sweater. Brendon's hand hovers over her tummy.

"Cats are pretty good at reading people," Spencer says, conversationally. He doesn't know if it's true or not. He doesn't much care. "She always hisses when the Super comes over. She must like you a lot."

Brendon smiles harder. "Really?" he asks, hopefully.

It sort of seems like it's a good sign.

\--

They don't talk much, just sharing the cookies and finishing off their glasses of milk. Brendon keeps on stroking Missy even after she's stopped purring and fallen asleep, her chest rising and falling in line with her breathing.

"Do you want to stay?" Spencer asks, after a few minutes of neither of them talking. Spencer's tired, it's been a long few weeks. He keeps thinking about leaving, about moving on and going back and how everything keeps on coming back to Brendon. His chest kind of aches.

Brendon blinks. He nods. "Yeah."

Spencer stands up and goes over to the closet, opening it up and picking out a pair of pajamas for Brendon to sleep in. They've been too small for him for a while, but they'll be too big for Brendon. He shrugs a shoulder, and hands them over.

"Thanks," Brendon says, awkwardly. "Is there somewhere I could change?"

"Here," Spencer says. "Or you can go down the hall to the bathroom."

"Here's good," Brendon says, quickly.

Spencer nods, and pulls out his pajamas from under his pillow. They're dark blue and striped, a size or so larger than he used to wear. He stands on one side of the bed, and Brendon's still sitting on the other, the cat on his knee.

"The cat," Brendon says, after a moment.

Spencer almost laughs. He doesn't. "Just wake her up," Spencer says. "She'll be grumpy, but it's her own fault for picking a lap to sleep in. She's better on the bed."

Brendon pokes her awake carefully, nudging her off his knee and onto the blankets. She's grumpy, half-heartedly mewling and complaining as she pads over to the foot of the bed and curls up again.

They undress in awkward silence, Spencer methodically folding up his shirt and pants, even though they're just going to go into the laundry basket in the morning. Brendon's doing the same, carefully hanging his jeans over the back of Spencer's chair and pulling on Spencer's old pajama bottoms. They hang loosely off his hips and he kind of has to hold them up with one hand as he reaches for the faded pajama top.

Spencer's pajamas are too short, so they hang just above his ankles. He stands by the edge of the bed, turning the covers down.

Brendon says, "The bathroom?"

"Down the hall," Spencer tells him, pointing. "Do you want a glass of water or anything?" Spencer has a couple of pills to swallow. Sometimes he can do it dry but he prefers a drink.

"Sure," Brendon says, awkwardly. "Yeah."

Spencer washes their glasses and dries them before filling them with water. He stands by the kitchen window and looks down at the street, at the street lights and the occasional car passing by. He listens for the sound of the flush and waits until Brendon's padded back down the hallway and into his room.

Spencer squares his shoulders and takes a deep breath.

\--

Brendon's sitting on the edge of the bed when Spencer comes in from the bathroom.

Spencer's face is still wet from where he's washed his face, trying to calm himself down like he used to do before going on stage. He shouldn't feel this nervous about just going to bed and falling asleep.

"You should get in to bed," Spencer says. "Your feet will get cold."

"Nah," Brendon says, wiggling his toes awkwardly. "I wanted to wait. You know, in case you had a side of the bed, or something."

"I don't," Spencer says. He's never shared this bed, not with anyone. Not before now. He's never needed to pick a side. He picks up the first box of pills from the nightstand, the low dosage anti-depressants his mom insisted he get a prescription for. He swallows it dry, trying not to notice Brendon watching him.

The second pill is the sleeping pill. He doesn't take them every night, but he can't sleep properly without them now, not anymore. He knows that they're addictive and shouldn't be prescribed long-term, but they have been and now Spencer can't help but rely on them, like a crutch. It's just something else in his life he needs to get a handle on, but his mom just says, _one thing at a time, Spencer, one thing at a time_. He knows she's right but he wishes she wasn't. Now though, there's something reassuring about knowing he's going to be out for eight hours, once it's kicked in.

"You okay?" Brendon asks, after a minute.

Spencer takes a big gulp of water, tipping his head back and staring at the ceiling for a moment.

"Yeah," he says. His hands are shaking. He doesn't know why. "It's just. Well. Things got pretty hard for a while. They help. The sleeping pills. The drugs. It's not, like." He tails off. "I don't want to take them. It's just, sometimes I don't know if I can do it without them." It's maybe the most he's revealed to Brendon – to anyone – about his dependency on prescription drugs. He wants it to stop.

Brendon nods, carefully. He stands up so he's in front of Spencer, an inch or so shorter, not so broad in the shoulders. He waits a moment, time for them both to take a breath, for Spencer to swallow again. Then he steps forward and wraps his arms around Spencer's shoulders, one hand in Spencer's hair.

Spencer feels _tight_ in his body, like there's tension running through every vein. His shoulders ache. He can't breathe properly; there's a lump in his throat and a tightness across his chest. He doesn't move, doesn't react, _can't_.

"It's okay," Brendon says, softly. His mouth brushes Spencer's ear, his hair. "We're okay."

"We're _not_," Spencer manages, and his voice sounds high and he doesn't recognize himself, doesn't recognize anything from the last year as _him_. He wants it all to _change_.

"We will be," Brendon says fiercely. He tightens his hold on Spencer, pressing closer.

Spencer gasps a breath and buries his face in Brendon's shoulder, his hands pulling Brendon closer. "I missed you," he says, "I missed you so fucking much."

Brendon just holds on tighter, rubbing circles on Spencer's back, his breath hot against Spencer's neck. "Shhh," he says, "It's okay."

Spencer can't quiet down. His breathing is too loud and too desperate and he can't let Brendon go, can't move away. "Brendon-"

Brendon just holds on tighter, his hands still stroking at Spencer's back.

Spencer tries to follow the rhythm of Brendon's hand, the slow, steady movements of his fingers, the beat of his heart.

His breathing slows and maybe his chest doesn't feel so tight anymore.

\--

"Come on," Brendon says, after a while. "It's cold. You're getting cold. You should get under the covers."

Spencer swallows and nods, pulling away. He ducks his gaze away from Brendon's and concentrates on steadying himself, straightening his pajamas and taking another gulp of water.

"Come on," Brendon says again.

Spencer nods, swallowing loudly. He walks around to the other side of the bed, pulling down the covers and climbing in, Brendon doing the same from the other side.

They're careful not to disturb Missy, asleep at the bottom of the bed, taking up most of Spencer's covers.

"Your cat's hoarding the blankets," Brendon says.

He's rolled onto his side, one hand under his cheek. He's taken his glasses off and his hair is sticking up in all directions. He looks- he looks _young_, and Spencer can't help but reach out and touch him, his palm cupping Brendon's cheek.

"What?" Brendon asks, after a while.

Spencer's still looking, still watching, still touching. He shrugs. "You just look-" he bites his lip. "You look good," he says.

Brendon presses a kiss to the inside of Spencer's wrist.

Spencer thinks that if time stands still, _this_ is the moment he wants to capture, this one, right now. Brendon's skin is warm to the touch and he's dark-eyed and sleepy, curled up on his side in Spencer's bed. His lips are pressed to Spencer's skin and Spencer just wants to move closer and fall asleep and for everything to be better when he wakes up.

It won't be; he knows this. But they're getting there.

Brendon reaches out his hand and curls it around Spencer's hip. "You're too far away," he says, and he doesn't meet Spencer's eye but he presses his fingers in until Spencer's got no choice but to shuffle forwards.

"That's better," Brendon says, and he kisses the inside of Spencer's wrist again, the soft, pale skin beneath his pulse.

Spencer bites his lip and meets Brendon's gaze. Brendon covers Spencer's hand with his own, their fingers intertwining. It feels- it feels _nice_.

"How long do your pills take to kick in, anyway?" Brendon asks, after a minute.

"Why?" Spencer asks curiously.

Brendon shrugs his shoulder. "Just wanted to wait it out with you, that's all."

Spencer swallows, nodding slowly. "About thirty minutes. Sometimes longer," he says. "Depends how tired I am, I guess. Other things, too."

"Okay," Brendon half-smiles, nudging closer and touching his nose to Spencer's. "Do you mind?" he asks, "I mean, can I? Can I do this?"

If _this_ is kissing, Spencer thinks, then yes. He licks his lips and leans in, meeting Brendon's mouth halfway.

Kissing is soft and kind of gentle. Brendon's controlling it, resting up on one elbow and leaning down. His tongue slides along Spencer's lip, Spencer's mouth opening beneath the insistent pressure. Brendon doesn't change the pace, sticking at slow. He doesn't move closer, either, content with holding Spencer's hand and kissing him.

Spencer thinks that maybe it's the nicest thing that's happened to him in a whole long time.

"Was that okay?" Brendon asks, after a minute, shuffling back a little so he's not so close. His eyes watch Spencer carefully.

Spencer manages a nod. "Yeah," he says, and before he really knows what he's doing, he's touching at Brendon's neck, his jaw, his cheek. "Do you think-" he starts, trailing off.

"Go on," Brendon says quietly. "Do I think what?"

Spencer bites his lip. "Do you think we can do this? Get past everything? Start again?"

Brendon runs his hand down Spencer's side, coming to rest at his hip, fingertips at Spencer's waistband. He doesn't make any move to slide his hand inside, and Spencer's grateful. He needs to know what Brendon's thinking, needs to know if they can do this. Anything else is just mechanics.

"I think," Brendon starts. "I think we're giving it our best shot."

"Is that enough?" Spencer asks, after a minute. He leans back on the pillow, rolling over so he's on his back and staring up at the ceiling.

Brendon's hand is left trailing over Spencer's belly, his thumb stroking. "It's all we've got, I guess," he says.

"I'm not the same person I was," Spencer starts, haltingly. "I've changed. _You've_ changed."

"Maybe this time we – I won't fuck it up, then," Brendon says, lightly.

It's not light at all though, not really. They can't even pretend.

"We," Spencer says, gently. Brendon looks confused, and Spencer can't help but hold on tighter, his fingers pressing into Brendon's skin. "Maybe _we_ won't fuck it up this time."

"Oh," Brendon says. He's quiet for a moment. "Yeah. Okay."

"I shouldn't have left like that," Spencer tells him. "That was wrong, I-" he tails off. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have gone where no one could find me. I shouldn't have run away." He's starting to feel sleepy, starting to feel that pull somewhere underneath his skin, the taste at the back of his throat. It's maybe come on quicker tonight, he doesn't know why. It's increasingly difficult to keep track of his train of thought.

"You okay?" Brendon asks, resting up on one elbow. "You getting sleepy?"

"Sort of," Spencer says. He remembers Brendon the last time they were together, him asking _will you stay_, his eyes pleading.

"Don't try and stay awake," Brendon tells him. "Don't fight it." He's smoothing Spencer's hair away from his face.

"Brendon-" Spencer's fingers close around Brendon's wrist. "You won't- I mean. You're still going to be here in the morning, right? You haven't got an early flight?"

Brendon stills, just for a moment. "No," he says, softly. "No, I'm still going to be here, Spence."

"Okay," Spencer says. "Okay, good." He thinks his words are slurring, just a little. He's not sure he can keep his eyes open.

"Close your eyes," Brendon tells him, fingertips brushing Spencer's temple.

Spencer does.

\--

In the morning, when he wakes up, Brendon's sitting up next to him, playing with Missy.

"Hey," Spencer says, groggily, trying to shake the sleep from his head.

"I think I taught your cat a trick," Brendon tells him.

"You didn't," Spencer says, closing his eyes again. "She is immune to tricks."

"Yours maybe," Brendon says. "Maybe I have the magic touch."

Spencer buries his face in the pillows. "What time is it?" he asks. There's a meow, and Missy jumps off the bed. "Told you," he says.

Brendon shrugs, sliding down again so he's under the covers. He rolls over so he's lying along Spencer's back, his hand resting on Spencer's hip. "I don't think Missy wanted to perform," he confides.

"Really?" Spencer says. His tongue feels thick, and he's having trouble coming around from the sleeping pill. "What time is it?" he asks again.

"Doesn't matter," Brendon says. "It's morning. You should sleep more, if you need to."

Spencer nods, his eyes already closing.

\--

The next time he wakes up, it's to the sound of his cellphone.

"Hello?" he says, without checking the caller ID.

It's Ryan. "Hey," he says. "Have you got Brendon with you?"

Spencer swallows. "Yeah," he says, blinking his eyes open. Brendon is sprawled out across two thirds of the bed, asleep. "He's here."

"Okay," There's a pause. "You okay?"

Spencer thinks for a moment. "Yeah," he says, finally. "I think maybe I am."

"Is he?" Ryan asks cautiously.

Spencer touches at Brendon's hair. He's waking up, his hair sticking up in all directions.

"Yeah," Spencer says. "I think he is too. His hair's a mess, though."

"Figures," Ryan says.

Brendon bats sleepily at Spencer's hand, shuffling closer.

"I think maybe we're both okay," Spencer says. "Maybe we all are."

"Yeah," Ryan says, overly casual. "So we're still going to have you back in a couple of weeks?"

Spencer nods. "Yeah," he says, and Brendon's awake now, awake and watching him. "Two weeks."

"Two weeks," Ryan echoes. There's a long pause. "Shit, don't you ever run away like that again, Spence, fuck, I don't think I could do this all over again. I can't-"

Spencer sits up. "Ryan-" he says, "_Ryan_."

"I know I was the one who fucked up," Ryan says, too quickly. "I know that, but fuck, let me fix it next time. I can't be without you, okay?"

"You can't get rid of me that easily a second time, Ross," Spencer says. He wants to say, _I won't_. "So don't go thinking you can, right?"

"I mean it," Ryan says. He sounds kind of desperate.

Spencer's fingers tighten around his phone. "I won't," he says, finally, and his voice catches. "I promise. I _promise_, Ryan."

Ryan swallows loudly. He clears his throat, and there's a long pause. "Okay," he says, quietly. "Good." Then, "Love you, Spence."

"Love you too," he manages, his chest tight.

Ryan coughs. He's never been one for hanging around after the declarations. "Say hey to Brendon for me, okay?"

Spencer nods, but Ryan's already hung up.

"You okay?" Brendon asks, propping himself up on his elbow.

Spencer just pushes back the covers and climbs out of bed, going over to the window, nodding. He pulls back the curtains, staring down into the alley between his apartment building and the next. "Yeah," he says, and his voice wavers. He tries to concentrate on his breathing, in and out, in and out.

Brendon comes over and hooks his chin over Spencer's shoulder, wrapping his arms around Spencer's middle.

Spencer lets himself lean back against Brendon's chest.

"We should go out and get breakfast or something," Brendon says, after a minute. "I mean, if you haven't got plans or anything. My flight's this evening."

"Yeah," Spencer says. He swallows, taking a deep breath and turning around. He smiles, uncertainly. "Sounds good."

Brendon smiles back.

"Two weeks," Spencer says, leaning back against the windowsill. He wants it _now_. He's so close to getting his life back, he can _feel_ it, tugging at the peripheries of everything. "Two weeks, Brendon."

"Then?" Brendon asks.

"We try and do it right this time."

Brendon nods. He's still smiling, but hesitantly. "You think you could maybe love me again? Sometime?" he asks, his voice light.

Spencer swallows. "Yeah," he says. His hands are shaking. "Signs point to yes."

"Okay," Brendon says.

He smiles, and Spencer smiles back.

\--

They buy coffees and donuts and eat them down by the water's edge, watching the sailboats.

It's cold, but Spencer has lent his Brendon his spare hat and gloves. They sit on a bench and share the donuts out, cupping the hot coffees until they're cool enough to drink. Spencer takes a crappy photo of their donuts and sends it to Jon.

Jon sends one back of a stack of pancakes. It says, _bkfast w/ryan_. Spencer grins and slides his phone into his pocket.

"You want to walk?" Spencer asks, after they've finished eating.

"In a minute," Brendon says, wiping sugar frosting off his bottom lip with the back of his glove. His hat keeps falling down over his eyes. It's kind of old and worn.

Spencer leans back, watching the water. "I'm really glad you came up here this weekend," he says, after a while.

Brendon nods. "I'm glad I came," he says. He tosses the empty donut box into the trash can. "I'm glad you're coming back."

"Me too," Spencer says.

It's starting to get chilly. "Come on," Brendon says, standing up and finishing off his coffee, dropping the empty cup after the donut box into the trash. "Let's walk."

Spencer reaches for Brendon's hand, their fingers entangling.

"Yeah," he says.

Brendon squeezes his hand, and Spencer smiles.

[end]


End file.
